Kiva at Chaco Canyon

The kiva meditates on herself

On the roundness of the soul

On the eagle's circular vision.

Lie on your back, little girl—

Notice the sky! It's contained

In its own infinite funnel.

I know this kiva. We are old friends—

The mother we never had.

I recognize her! It's she

Who forces one toward the middle.

In the kiva there is only middle.

Looking out through her bald blue eye

It's me:

Looking in, looking out.