Summer 1990 • Vol. XII No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 1990 |

The Dare

Holding hands a hundred feet above the water that used to be Glen Canyon, inching toward the edge, and then we're off, out into that voluminous expanse of air, out beyond rainbows and red dirt, the smell of gasoline and canvas. Staring across at the lacunas in the cliff, the sky, a space blue—and it's absolutely quiet except for the erotic sound of erosion, the soft trickle of sand working its way down the bank. Two mississippis above the blue raked water and I wish I were anywhere but here, suspended above Lake Powell. I'd rather be a lady writing, staring out from a Vermeer, dressed in a yellow morning jacket, composing the diciest of letters. Dipping in and out of the inkwell like a thirsty bird—that would be wetness enough. Pushing the pen excitedly across the page, waiting in the words' shadow for my directions—what flowers to buy, to what part of the sky I should carry my gaze. But I'm not in that cloistered room. I'm outside, just seconds away from the lake's veneer

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