Tour of a Pueblo

Where the horno ovens hold

bottles, shrimped wrappers,

that’s where I snap

our picture, pinch our camera like a pill

bottle, hold it, snap a picture,

let it nest with the others,

the slideshow-ready pictures,

not narrative, not expectorant

of sentence, but ready pictures of us

smiling in a pueblo where horno ovens hold

wrappers, itchy-bodied in a breeze; they are whipped into chambers

where they scratch the long shards of broken bottles—

rashy rustle. The wind blows a few out.

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