A kind of bodily resurrection when it felt
Like I'd been in the exact same spot before.
And that other spot, and that other spot.
The bottom railing at Point Imperial at noon,
Surely the same place as Point Imperial
In the predawn chill fifteen years ago
With a new and newly pregnant wife, waiting
For the sunrise over the quiet canyon.
The Point Royal walk out over the perfect
Triangle hole in the ledge, tourists like ants
Collecting images instead of crumbs, surely
The same exact viewpoint as a decade ago,
The marriage now ended, the baby never born.
The rectangular foundations of ancient
Houses left by the ancestors who farmed
Imported beans, maize, and squash there
In the summers, for five generations or so,
Roughly nine hundred years ago, until
Perhaps the world got too dry, with even
The same informational plaques, surely
The same ruins where I stood two years gone,
Wife turned to ash seven years earlier, but
A daughter now to think of, however far
Away from me that day. And so on, Cape Final
To Bright Angel. To return to a known
Place that felt unchanged was to reincarnate,
The body realigned with bodies long gone,
Own especially. A crisp breeze rustled
The hair thinner and more silver than ever,
And the heavy animal hobbled slowly back
To the car. None of this was here. None
Of this was ever here. Every body is always
Older. Every older body, by being so, is new.
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