Nuevo Mexicano

   Around doorways I hear a blue wolf howling Crying for poetry hanging from vigas Drying with chilies down to a mere essence of thought.   Golden coins adorn dead Cottonwood roots Breathing steams coffee like in mornings Ice covers pebbles in dying stream beds.   Crescent moons muddy denote horse herd's passage Masa frying in pork fat Dead Tio calling for an Atumn's dinner repast.   Under a hunter's moon I hear the wolf Scratching around my door posts Always hungry for more.   -DS Baker