how small did you feel

standing on the edge of Bryce Canyon

but we are always small

my father turning philosophical again

which is to say wandering away from any self

he might have

spoken of the hour the foolishness

with which we sculpt time into a life

my life is not my life

that I should say Ithat I daughter am daughtering

that we think we are different

that we stand on other margins

far from each other the days altering inordinately distantly

to this he sweeps clean my words with the same refutation

but we are always small

which is to say

we are as good not here as here

in the static of the hour I call dusk

and he calls dinner

silence holds its breath

(“I’m not dead. Nothing remains, let alone ‘to be said’”)

it bothered me that he claimed to know my mind

when more often a thought hides like sun in fog

I had asked him for a picture of the canyon

a picture of him against the sky’s bluest capacity

was it too much to imagine him standing in enchantment

did you see limber pine aspen those
taciturn holier-than-thou trees

did you see calm irrigation a river a creek
and farther west

the ocean and the country of your birth

I did not think you would use a word

like holy he observes from where his voice sits alone

(disapproving and lonely my father)

what will you have for dinner tonight

how many times will you circle the block
tonight

who will you speak to after me and why
tonight

yes I say it all the time

holy holy holy

it does not mean I mean it or understand