An hour before dawn I finish packing, take the garbage out, unplug the computer and exchange "Good morning" with an early-rising neighbor. Then I drive across Fremont Bridge to a friend's house, awake when I arrive. He takes me to the airport, driving among a conspiracy of red eyes.

A hour later, seatbelt secure, the man sitting next to me is discussing the sale of Portland's Dry Dock 4, as we yaw over New Mexico's orogenies, the landscape slowly flattening into long roads of sere Texas monotony.

In Houston Airport I look for a book of puzzles. From here to Ft. Lauderdale, an anthropologist tells me of her trip to Taos, that little town with one road running up and down its spine, and life is lived close to the bone.

                           ghosts in the bones

you could have fooled
                          my camera.


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