I sail over the Grand Canyon, eyeing
the Colorado’s curled, staggered shore, its
titian hue, my spread-armed body flying
past scooped-toffee mountain walls. My hand hits
a buttress, rocks my balance, spins me down
toward water, my flipping gaze catching blurred
frames of distant hills tinted reddish brown,
like rare roast beef. Rapids magnify, stirred
to anger as I hurtle to them. Then
I stop me. My simulated me. Ease
me down, toes touching waves, hear cheering when
I begin to walk upstream, create trees
along the shoreline, sense my real me shout,
“Hell, the battery’s died!” My light goes out.
Roger Armbrust
August 14, 2007
