Edward Curtis' "Good Lance: Oglala"

                       Here’s where the light

burns brightest, ghostly furze

that crowns a headdress: a burst

of cool chromatics echoing

through plumage, vest, striped staff,

the very tinting of cheek and lip-

curve; nose like a halo

of spattered fire. So white

we almost have to squint to take him in, to see

the pattern of himself appear, here

where carefully articulated kinks

in the fingers mimic the tunic’s hyphenated

stripes, pale bead blocks that joint

the half-bent arms and thighs: flesh made less

solid by shadow, so all that exists seems

pure bone, the outline of a man

stuffed in his plumage, snowy relic

of a last, good suit now donned for show.

To survive, in this photo, is to remain

all disappearance, caught in the costume

of one’s blanched imprisonment.

His mouth is pursed. His eyes are closed.

For him, to die

is a present act with no possible ending.

Going going going going—

Even alive, he’s history.