Phoenix, Arizona
Jason Downey

Children hide their sticks in the yucca, lick down their hair. Near Pioneer Park, a man walks despite a twisted ankle. He puts a pen light to the tip of his finger, looks at something inside. At the capital building, the government cannon is brushed once with linen, once with wool. And a long time ago, the gold on the capital's dome lost luster, and an immigrant was found to run it over with a rag. They hoisted him up by crane. He was quoted in the newspaper as saying the crane operator had done a good job and that he could see forever.
And things rise that remain oblivious. Like during a heart transplant the new heart is restarted with a squeeze. Then they check to see if blood is running to the fingers, and when they close the chest cavity, they run it over with a rag. There's a look in the surgeon's eyes that says something like forever restarted. I've seen it done on television. It was late at night, and my room was blue with the oblivious.

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