My House is the Red Earth
My house is the
red earth; it could be the center of the world. I've heard New York,
Paris, or Tokyo called the center of the world, but I say it is
magnificently humble. You could drive by and miss it. Radio waves can
obscure it. Words cannot construct it, for there are some sounds left to
sacred wordless form. For instance, that fool crow, picking through
trash near the corral, understands the center of the world as greasy
strips of fat. Just ask him. He doesn't have to say that the earth has
turned scarlet through fierce belief, after centuries of heartbreak and
laughter-he perches on the blue bowl of the sky, and laughs.