at night we crossed the border following a Black robe 
to the edge of the reservation—to Cataldo Mission 
where the saints and all the martyrs look down on dying converts 
what makes the water holy she says is that that it’s the closest thing to rain 
I stole a mule from Anthony—I helped Anne up upon it 
and we rode to Coeur d’Alene—through Harrison and Wallace 
they were blasting out the tunnels—making way for the light of learning 
when [bad word] a’calling she said [bad word] round the mountain on a train 
it’s my home—last night I dreamt that I grew wings 
I found a place where they could hear me when I sing 
we floated on to Hanford on a lumber boat up river 
past the fisheries and the milltowns like a stretch of future graveyards 
she was driven to distraction—said I wonder what will happen 
when they find out they’re mistaken and the land is too changed to ever change 
we waded through the marketplace—someone’s ship [bad word] in 
there was silver and begonias—dynamite and cattle 
there were hearts as big as apples and apples in the shape of Mary’s heart 
I said inside this gilded cage a songbird always looks so plain 
it’s my home—last night I dreamt that I grew wings 
I found a place where they could hear me when I sing. 
and so they came with cameras—breaking through the morning mist 
press and businessmen—tycoons—Episcopal philanthropists 
lost in their appraisal of the body of a woman 
but all we saw were lowlands—clouds clung to mountains without strings 
and at last we saw some people huddled up against 
the rain that was descending like railroad spikes and hammers 
they were headed for the border—walking and [bad word] 
then they were gone into the fog but Anne said underneath their jackets she saw wings