R. I. - The poetry of the place

R.

Rock.

That's what the city's built on.

Or dust, that's what comes after.

Or water, that's what they took away,

Built over.

Rock, we forget it's there

Worn, like our teeth, they wear

Down.

Up, from the earth, it

Protrudes, a face

To be written on, a trace

                                                          
Of who was here.

Wolly, pure thing

Didn't have an "a", or

Maybe an animal, came before

Wolly, the wooly mammoth.

Before paint, and spray

The rock was there.

Now you build around it, toothpick

Homes, two car lot

Snow, and the wild words,

Cascade.

© 2011 Angela M. Counts

"Rock/Church"
Photo: Angela M. Counts

I.

Iglesia, Church

To you, tucked in

City walks, talks.

The voices we hear.

Iglesia, so much

Better than church,

revered, sacred.

Church crunches, explodes

In broken teeth. Iglesia

Too, broken bones and

Bonds, but still living on.

Tucked in between, found

on the sly. The spires,

Stone, hard streets,

Dark interior, soul.

Craving what's lost,

And found again.

You see what you are.

© 2011 Angela M. Counts