just once
just long enough
to snap up the words
fish-hooked from
to our tongues.
You think of us now
when you kneel
on the earth,
turn holy
in a temporary tourism
of our souls.
With words
you paint your faces,
chew your doeskin,
touch breast to tree
as if sharing a mother
were all it takes,
could bring instant and primal
knowledge.
You think of us only
when your voice
wants for roots,
when you have sat back
on your heels and
become
primitive.
You finish your poem
and go back.