Terra Forma

(on James Turrell’s “Roden Crater”)

If the mouth of the volcano is behind us, then

All these mosaic tiles here along the cave-walls are ours to crease our fingers through,

Ours to see as fractal shards from some created dimension,

Ours to hold and form inside ourselves as it bubbles, our inferno:

The magma is in its chamber, for now,

So we can safely set the sun into its proper aperture, smooth the lens

So that the solstice floods our inner tile-scape, smooths out all the creases

In our grout, glows into our gritty insides that churn and bubble.

The frantic orange-reds and clouds of gas are furled up,

Stored away for when our time is right, and we’ll know it

When the sunlight floods our insides just so, the solar alignment

Bursting our magma into arms of liquid fire, composing arabesques of brand-new earth.