Little Colorado River passed several times, running muddy and slow through northern Arizona, a pallet of
short grasses with knobs of bushes, past the smokestacks of Joseph City, its power lines running toward
a painter here, Kaemon, who was a kindred spirit and had visited all the nearby places the poets had made
famous. Before him those places were the notorious silence of unnamed sites.

 

 

Up the road is Indian Country, where "'Uncle Maki,’ Grandmother Earth asked sadly, 'Why are you?'"

Not graffiti, not Land Art,
not made for the market
where Saturn is gulping
his children down.