He stands on the edge staring
down into the red, copper, blue
canyon,

across the dirt road from the
brightly dressed African women
balancing loads on their heads,

on a tour of a Phoenix neighbor-
hood of 1940’s bungalows restored
and updated,

sauntering along the aged aqueduct
in the Italian valley of deep blues
and greens and distant water,

and he hasn’t left his chair.