don't look, I
run with the wind, amok gilted hands
fast lacing,
i've only got six fingers saved for
dead kachinas, and I'm

wheeling rough
through the underbrush;
mixed Wiley yellow, willow
peering in on my schemes, paint
pallet dragging leaves
over the hills and holes of
my body's deepest grief

so brush up the tic
and wipe off the blood,
if i'm treading through this
horse hyde, then lift
up my red dress
and sift out the weeds
 
bramble ramble, ramble
soothsayer hanging bones from
his swollen empty gut-- I

got a rain-stick, talking-stick
Yellow Wampum floating, bagging
sick sweat, for Appaloosa, holy, holy

leave, god anger ugly,
golden painted leaves

and if i'm too swollen, and if you're too
sullen-- i've got a bag of névé rocks for you
so hitch up the tobacco and wait
for tomorrow

my deer running, hoof trotting, snow
blowing legs will be comin' soon.