A steep step down
into dust and wash at the curve
through Pima Canyon 
and city disappears.  I can make you
disappear just so:  move around
a certain point of view.   Fighter jets
on practice run drown out argument
residues, this scarred pair below. 
Tomorrow, we’ll both look
for escape.  Car ads on TV
for you—little else signals possibility. 
Sip your coffee.  Old, bitter grinds. 
I’ll return to scan the ridge, watch
for Bighorn sheep sure to elude
me on walls of mountain
amphitheater.  Very few
have walked through here. 
Maybe just one today,
battle weary.  Checking
the horizon for a sign.