Poetry Archives

The city is closing for the night.
Stores draw their blinds one by one,
and it’s dark again, save for the dim

infrequent streetlight bending at the neck
like a weighted stem. Years have built
the city in layers: balustrades filled in

with brick, adobe reinforced with steel, 
and the rounded arches smoothed 
with white cement. Neighborhoods 

have changed the burro trails 
to streets, bare at night—
no pedestrians, no cars, no dogs.

With daylight, the houses turned galleries 
and stores turned restaurants open—
the Navajos wrapped in wool

crowd the Palace of the Governors plaza
to sell their handmade blankets, 
silver rings, and necklaces 

to travelers who will buy jewelry 
as they buy everything—
another charming history for themselves.