N a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 1 0

DAVID COPE

Flight to Phoenix

in seat staring out window at clouds,

I look into my empty hands—

think of his face, my own a mirror

thru which I can see him

& in his, the pattern of my being.

I followed his canoe, early evening, he

looking back as I swam my first long half-mile

as he later followed me up Bright Angel.

how much

sorrow we both contained, how many tears,

madness we passed

& left, to keep the heart secure.

he was a deliberate hiker thru sage & castled butte,

his camera imaging the mirror of our days:

a fly on yellow cactus flower near walls of vishnu schist,

the son in full stride on switchback below,

the thousand-year handprint in sinagua doorway.