The edge, the edge, the edge, the edge

Is a tantrum waiting to spill

Into the limelight, a lantern

Lurking and spurning all petitions

For sanctuary, a taciturn

Revelation yielding a bumper crop

Of delusion,

An empty black sedan that beckons

With fumes white and blue:

“¡Mi Babieca! ¿Puedes siquiera reconocerme?

How I missed you,”

A cross chain, an ocean, a history, a solitude,

Yes, a cliff too,

Not this obvious, violent scarp but

A memory, an abandoned watercolor

Holding two lovers safe above unruly tides...

A quick ‘Ave’ uttered

To raise life from these arroyos,

A man-child permitting itself to believe the magic works,

Watching a rose of Sharon bloom in the desert

For but one intractable frame,

Shot on location at Dead Horse Point,

The edge of the truth we were once allowed to share.

Ca in

Pi ho

Tu ra

La mo

Ti rt

On is!

The great hero has a self to give the movement,

The lesser hero has only a body and mind.

This is a fact, mathematical as any angle.

Yet are they not both heroes?

Are they?

Are they?

Are they?

☉