Sunrise, Grand Canyon

　　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--