prophets were born and raised here
their bones in the pipeline of the past
when each man was his own tribe

when the lenape cried out
in the sunlight
for mother’s milk

after the jug of the spirit
had gone empty

when the boy from bartlesville
watched young girls dance
just outside his window

pacing the ward floor
waiting for muhammad
to seek his advice

when invisible prairies still offered
the possibility of young love

when the cosmos was powered
by white bread & gasoline

when wind ripped through these fields
like the last gust of breath from the dead

when nothing sacred
could be held down
by a stone.