Light punctured
once ominous vapor, and my feet
fell in their turn upon
Los Angeles concrete.
The light fell upon stone
and steel
risen up from the dying rainclouds
as the phoenix.
(The building with rainclouds
behind it.)
Architectural Style
indicates the middle 1980s,
shapes motivated by
Fuller
and
Wright.

Perched on a promontory of
the distant boulevard,
like a rusted mesa
in the season of desert monsoons.
Sunlit cinnamon
in front of vapor-cold lead.
(My mind imagined
major sevenths
and expectations.)
Roan lain over dulled steel
stood,
in contrast,
a defiance of
imposed vibrations of
light
and
dark.

My feet fell, then, in their turn,
drawn by the gravity of
mundane Los Angeles concrete.
The edifice my eyes contained
remained, mundane to the rest of
(the eyes and the clouds and)
the falling feet
that shuttled around my paused figure.
It stood there for the contrast
of sorrel on ash.
It stood there for loyalty,
mute and profound,
unthinking and deliberate.
It stood there for me,
to represent,
and
to comfort.

Timothy A. Clark
1997