Scott Withiam
POEMS
 

Twelfth Century Church Carved Inside a Mountain,



chiseled out of stone. Such cold rooms
with what words spoken
still wanting to echo? Such human drive -
to physically make another world
available. The metaphysical.
This anteroom full of coughing tourists -
what drives us? Association: Oh, Howe Caverns,
oh tourist trap the stone teeth and bowels
of which were backlit like an Italian restaurant.
I traveled three thousand miles
only to see you. Oh, other worldliness -
the places I've already been. Oh, man
standing next to me
registering disgust with the tombs,
the bodies one had to walk over
in order to get to worship.
Oh, me.