The houses on stilts that stand by the beach

are the last ships

that swept across the ocean from Europe,

as the Indian watched from the shore,

and saw the houses stomp onto the sand,

mounted on giant mechanical legs,

with rifles pointed out the windows

and light from the television glowing

strangely

onto their world,

stamping out the fish,

and knocking the buffalo off their feet,

as the Indian fell with them,

hitting the ground hard, stirring up a dust

that would not faze the house’s inhabitants,

who walked on straight to the next coast

not looking down

to see their feet stepping on the graves.