I Like Rock

I like rock.
I like trees, too,
and grass,
but rock is something else.

I love to see it lying down
in layers flat or wrinkled,
ripped apart in road cuts
or weathered in canyon cliffs,
content with age.

I love to see it rising up
in volcanic thrusts,
great glowering peaks
surging out of the earth
in silent rage.

Rock is fundamental,
like bones.
Yes, I like bones, too.
The desert gives me rock
and bones,

new bones on rock,
old bones beneath old rock,
rock themselves, bones
that lived like I’m living now,
when rock was new.

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