One is, bewildered, left upright under the sun
while the other, speechless, slipped faraway for shade.

Now those pretty bands making sense of this dumb rock
lead down, like steps, the one who will not leave.

One set in his ways in this age of the critic
reliving the days when poems built up in praise.

Pretty the bands of rock, pretty the rings of trees
pretty your crumbling steps, canyon I'll never leave.