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Grand Canyon MAG
These days, it feels like I’m stuck
on one side of the Grand Canyon,
and you’re on the other. You are
a tiny dot against the muscle
of brown rock, and I can barely
see your wave with the sun in my eyes.
This bowl of blue above our heads
is beautiful, I remark, squinting
toward the cerulean stretch ahead,
but I know it would take more
than a 25-cent telephone call
for you to hear those words. I know
you’re doing fine, because of the postcards
you’ve sent – I read one just this morning
as I was lacing up my hiking boots. Kinda
funny, since we’re both here at 36.055 N,
112.121 W, but we each use up half an hour
a day on letters. You should know
I would never want to bankrupt you,
my friend. I just cannot help but remember
the strolls we took over this sun-
beaten earth, and I cannot help the vertigo
I get from looking down the cliffs
to the white rapids. Who crossed that bridge?
It does not matter. I wave, you wave,
and we grin our invisible smiles,
before we look to the horizon and continue
our own way.
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