The adobe abodes of Santa Fe

We walk through the oldest house
in the USA. The broken wood in
the rafters, the swollen chimney in
the corner. A table made without
a nail. The thick walls, the brick
inside the wall. There's a sample
brick. Later we walk past a five foot
hand grenade painted brilliant gold with a
bright red pin. Hand grenade reminds
me of migraine, and perhaps a migraine
is a hand grenade of the mind.
Someone says, I was too drunk to
walk home so I drove. A bumper sticker:
If you eat youre involved in agriculture.
At night the El Rey swimming pool glows like
a liquid emerald. The high stars.
After an early, disappointing review,
a friend told Georgia O'Keefe that
the critic was writing not about her
art, but his own autobiography.