“Places”
An isolation junk
subway jostles these people
This city is mine
Cool rolling hills wake
In the misty mornings still
With no sign of sun
Wait in crowded markets
Fresh dates for sale, lamps to rub
Old carpets to ride. . .
Drumming of the soul
Stirs the feathers of eagles
Peyote smoke flies
Ancestor’s first home
From Sahara to Cape Hope
We will be there soon
Old red dynasty
Bamboo reeds float down Yangtze
paddies soak my feet
C.L. Halliburton
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