He was there
before the rising action rose to meet this acre cornered by thirst，
before birds swallowed bathwater and exploded in midsentence，
before the nameless
began sipping1 the blood of ravens2 from the sun's knotted atlas3.
He was there，
sleeping with one eye clamped tighter than the other，
he looked， when he shouldn't have.
He said， You are worth the wait，
in the waiting room of the resurrection of another Reservation
and continued to dig for water， her hands， a road map，
in a bucket of white shells outside the North gate.
He threw a blanket over the denouement4 slithering onto shore
and saw Indians，
leaning into the beginning，
slip out of turtle shells，
and slide down bottle necks，
aiming for the first pocket of air in the final paragraph.
He saw anthropologists hook a land bridge with their curved spines5，
and raised the hunters a full minute above its tollbooth，
saying， Fire ahead， fire.
When they pointed6，
he leapt into the blue dark
on that side of the fence；
it was that simple：
sap drying in the tear ducts of the cut worm，
his ignition switched on
blue horses grazing northward7 in the pre-dawn.