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white river poems 393
(Oh, far downstream, in Utah) --
Of the many souls
This last one, so light,
Like a puff of smoke!
Going up in stillness
Out of the hacked-out
Huge old self, that had been
So much photographed
For the papers;
That had supplied them,
And the Utes, also,
With the materials
For so many stories;
And that was a good, workable
Ute self, now
Lying still for once,
And solid, heavy; yes,
As if it had been fashioned
With chisel and hand axe
From a tree trunk.
nathan meeker
You again. -- I again, though
This time I've come to listen.
-- To be here for the hanging
of your picture beside those
of your old Indian friends.
-- Hanging, you say. -- I'll get on
with it, since I think you were
the pure White man as Piah
was the pure Ute. -- And naive
as Piah, no doubt. -- But that's
a compliment. It's naive
to care for life as you did,
both of you. -- For doing things,