by John Barton

    We stand on the edge， the fall

    into depth， the ascent

    of light revelatory， the canyon walls moving

    up out of

    shadow， lit

    colours of the layers cutting

    down through darkness， sunrise as it

    passes a

    precipitate of the river， its burnt tangerine

    flare brief， jagged

    bleeding above the far rim for a split

    second I have imagined

    you here with me， watching day's onslaught

    standing in your bones——they seem

    implied in the record almost

    by chance——fossil remains held

    in abundance in the walls， exposed

    by freeze and thaw， beautiful like a theory

    stating who we are

    is carried forward by the X

    chromosome down the matrilineal line

    recessive and riverine， you like

    me aberrant and bittersweet， and losing

    your hair just when we have begun

    to know the limits of beauty， you so

    distant from me now but at ease

    in a chair in your kitchen， pensive， mind

    wandering away from yesterday's Times， the ink

    rubbing off on your hands， dermatoglyphic

    and telltale， but unread

    on the chair arms after you

    had pushed yourself to your feet such

    awhile ago， I'd say， for here I am

    three hours behind you， riding the high

    Colorado Plateau as the opposing

    continental plates force it over

    a mile upward without buckling， smooth

    tensed， muscular fundament， your bones yet

    to be wrapped around mine——

    this will come later， when I return

    to your place and time， I know it， you not

    ready for past or future， our combined

    bones so inconsequent yet

    personal， the geo

    logic cross

    section of the canyon dropping

    from where I stand， hundreds

    millions of shades of terra cotta， of copper

    manganese and rust， the many varieties of stone——

    silt， sand， and slate， even "green

    river rock，" a rough misidentified

    fragment of it once unknowingly

    dropped when I was a boy into my as of yet un

    settled sediments by a man who tried

    to explain how slowly the Earth meta

    morphosed from my meagre

    Wolf Cub's collection of rocks， his sheer

    casual physicality enough to negate

    all received wisdom， my body voicing its immense

    genetic imperatives， human

    geology falling away

    into a

    depth I am still unprepared for

    the canyon cutting down to

    the great unconformity， a layer

    so named by the lack

    of any fossil evidence to hypothesize

    about and date such

    a remote time by， at last no possible

    retrospective certainties， what a

    relief， your face illegible

    these words when I began not what I had

    intended to say——something new about

    the natural dynamic between

    earth and history， beauty and art——

    but you are my subject， unavoidable

    and volatile， the canyon

    floor a mile from where I objectively

    stand taking photos I will later develop of

    the ripe， trans

    formative light on these surreal

    buttes to show you on the surface

    how beautiful and diverse

    and unimportant our time together

    or with anyone else

    really is——

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