Talisman
Quetzal: you write
the word on a sheet of paper
then erase it;
each word, a talisman,
leaves a track: a magpie
struts across a portal
and vanishes from sight;
when you bite into sea urchin,
ocean currents burst
in your mouth; and when
you turn, gaze at the white shutters
to the house,
up the canyon, a rainbow
arcs into clouds;
expectancies, fears, yearnings—
hardly bits of colored glass
revolving in a kaleidoscope:
mist rising from a hot spring
along a river; suddenly
you are walking toward Trinity Site
looking for glass
and counting minutes
of exposure under the sun;
suddenly small things ignite.
