Geode

Crusted half-globe, it lay

face down beneath the tools

and wire left to rust away

on dark back shelves, where pools

of oil reeked underfoot.

Mid-August and the schools

all closed, the rafters' grit

drifting like tedium,

I clambered down with it:

where had he brought it from,

that stone meant as a gift?-

His voice became a hum

as he'd explained over

and over the layering sift

of silts, that rocky fever

as grains fuse and compress,

fixing the tints forever.

Alone, I tipped its mass

on the grimed leg of my shorts,

and as light streamed across

the ceiling's pine supports,

its crystals glittered, a sea

of amethystine quartz

frozen around glassy

spires, gray-purple, cold,

and shining brilliantly,

a city it seemed you could hold.

Bubble of liquid rock

that rose as lava cooled

into this city where

the smell of roadwork smoke

laces the stifling air

as I drive home tonight,

and over the freeway glare

hotel and banktower light

glitters as cars veer from wide

curves toward the downtown streets.

Rock has liquefied,

the beachtown cliffs melting

into Pacific tide,

and unkempt iceplant is spilling

down hills beside my lane.

Deep into the night, trying

and trying to explain,

years later he would shake

with anger as, arraigned

at a mathbook, half-awake,

I wandered among its clues.

Rousing, I swore l'd break

from laws I couldn't use,

letting his world grind

down to fire-motes and diffuse,

and forget that drab rind,

toothed with crystals, buried

wherever rock is mined.