Thirty years ago, 
I sat secure
within the thick, cool, whitewashed mud walls
of an adobe art hut of the Colorado Rocky Mountain School.

Today, I wandered through
	the streets of a city of adobe, walls two feet thick.
7,000 feet in the mountains,
the light as a white as bones bleached
by hundreds of years of sun.
In Paseo de Peralta plaza,
natives, still squat behind blankets of their wares,
while young blondes parade golden tans. 

San busco is the market center of Sante Fe.
Forty five years ago, as the Santa Fe Building Supply Company,
it poured out construction materials for the Manhattan Project,
in Las Almos, on the outskirts of town.
Just over the next ridge
I hear,
in the howling wind,
the screams  of the citizens of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

Last night, I slept within the adobe walls of the Hotel Santa Fe
owned by the Picuris Pueblo.
Their comment form asks if I slept well.

I write:

"Last night 
I slept with the ghosts of whole tribes in the street 
with the homeless man 
who built himself a cardboard house
in front of a gallery closed for the night.
These tribes dreamt of the Conquistadors.
The Conquistadors dreamt of the Anglo's,
and here on the dancing grounds of the Sun,  
they all dreamt 
of how,
every evening,
the hills ran red with the dying of the sun."



			Brandywine
			8/23/97