These days, it feels like I’m stuck
on one side of the Grand Canyon,
and you’re on the other. You are

a tiny dot against the muscle
of brown rock, and I can barely
see your wave with the sun in my eyes.

This bowl of blue above our heads
is beautiful, I remark, squinting
toward the cerulean stretch ahead,

but I know it would take more
than a 25-cent telephone call
for you to hear those words. I know

you’re doing fine, because of the postcards
you’ve sent – I read one just this morning
as I was lacing up my hiking boots. Kinda

funny, since we’re both here at 36.055 N,
112.121 W, but we each use up half an hour
a day on letters. You should know

I would never want to bankrupt you,
my friend. I just cannot help but remember
the strolls we took over this sun-

beaten earth, and I cannot help the vertigo
I get from looking down the cliffs
to the white rapids. Who crossed that bridge?

It does not matter. I wave, you wave,
and we grin our invisible smiles,
before we look to the horizon and continue

our own way.