Robert King Reads
When I lived in the Dakotas,
towns were celebrating only
their centennial. Outside
a hotel window in Spain
stood a deserted church,
restorada in 1855,
a tree growing out of the belfry.
I have learned about time, learned again.
When I asked a young girl on her way
through the Zuni village what that was,
those rocks jumbled around a hole
in a weedy vacant lot, she said
“The center of the world,” and ambled
through that morning toward her school.