This did not happen: I did not photograph,
Much less climb into the sacred kivas,
Still in daily use, that I could see behind
The sawhorse with the No Trespassing sign.
I did not wade into the Red Willow Creek.
I did not meet a stranger who engaged me
In long and earnest conversation, although
Perhaps I said a few polite hellos and thanks,
Maybe I complimented a mother on her baby
And discussed the differing scents of sage
And various kinds of cedar with an elder.
I did not find myself out of the clutches
Of the likely, of the things that happened.
I may have moved around a bit and taken
A few pictures and eaten a piece of frybread,
But I did not escape into another dimension
Although I did know exactly why: I existed.
My existence was the bar to my release.
I watched the clouds gather over the peaks,
But I did not have a vision of any other
World, smudged with sage, sacred, me in it.
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