by Amalio Madueño

can’t I believe it will flow forever
all that time since the Conquest
running through basalt in the high valley
where I stand figuring Fall in a new place
that will cease to exist before the petroglyphs
give up their pitted, abraded visions
as clouds race past purple tuff
& white wooden graveyard crosses catch light
& I think I know something of the life
I have lived & of water flowing
& the course of leaves drifting to dissolution
as I clear the running channel & recall
what it was that fed desire &
the motion bringing me here & soon on
to some new place the whole time
thinking where did I think I was going

Note:  Acequia: Southwestern United States.  An irrigation canal. [Spanish, from Arabic as — saq°y~h, irrigation ditch.]