he pulled the blue ford business man’s coupe over to the side, a gravelled stretch, and out we climbed, onto the hoover dam. the concrete shell blocked the black rock gorge, and behind it all the blue water in the world waited, angry at being so pent up. we walked the dog, ate mustard and […]
below, the desert is already tucking itself into night, the tan mountains shining on their western aspects, with purple robes unfurled from their pinnacles to the east. the land is deeply carved with light and shade, running east to the severe corrugations of the mogollon rim. i think, ‘shadow play” this is a
one summer, my tenth, i think, we spent living on the roof of the garage. we kept a pair of ten foot tall stilts leaning up against the edge of the roof, and would from time to time step onto them, go striding down the alley, or around the backyard, overhung with mimosa. how
now, my street runs northsouth curves west then back east again becomes Sylvan, the old forest road to the trinity bottoms, then, across and into town there’s a place where 5 mile creek appears above ground awhile then hides again on it’s way to the river all day, the cars, trucks and buses run
holding a long stick the man steps through leaves like piles of hardened flame the black lab leaps gleefully his pink flag tongue hangs from his red mouth white teeth gleam he knows the stick will arc through the sky he’ll run joyous to fetch the long brown stick thrown by the man in
(from the Fr. revenir-to return; those who have returned, the spirits of the dead, returning to the site of their deaths) he was just back from africa, where he’d caught the spirochete, or a virus, syph–who knows? maybe he just cracked in the sun? what- ever, he was not the same man left
