His engine left sputtering in the parking lot, he strides,
shouting, You're terrific, into the rose and copper wall,

towering over him, hollering, he was, thrilled by his own tones
and overtones—so much identity flooding the landscape.

He yells into that singular space of no corners, no edges,
and it answers him back, thrilled by his voice midair, mid-August,

in the sage-scented dusk. Look how warm air has been whipped
into resonance, completing him in color—russet of dried blood, smoky pink,

lilac of pre-rainstorm. And all that sound flooding back to him, at him.
How he marries it, dives in, and owns it all, soft air,

thick colors, birdsong time. He starts shouting again—harmonics
and counterpoint—sultry light on the black-eyed susans, and plastic lilies

on the roadside crosses draped with little Madonnas. I'm here, I am still here,
he yells, back in his car, as evening drums its fingers, plumping the air,

he hits the accelerator, fast, faster. From the side-view mirror,
a face in the light, I meant the life, I mean the light.