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estrella peak points at a star
dark saguaros in silent prayer
coyotes sing and house-dogs shout
cold mountain dust in my pocket

smog reddens into desert dusk
airplanes roar like terrified planets
a new road seethes in the void
time to leave this penal colony





the mind is wind
the word is lord
whose love can move
the head to read

now gone alone
to brood in blood
now come back home
the wound resound




maybe confidence is bad
like junkfood sociality
primitive remnant of
survival foolishness

fearfulness, uncertainty
dwelling in a question
doubting wondering
the good hesitates

or doesnít it?




white flowers blowing in the wind
blood roots breaking black soot
the land lives as bodies bend toward a thought
what was and now is not

walk ahead, weíll all arrive soon
watching the willows weep
walk behind, we will leave soon
ridge trail steady and steep

creek scum gathered where the foot bridge fell
marsh reeds broken in the mud

(listen to "white flowers")




please donít gaslight me
itís rather dark in here
my eyes grow thick, clod by time and tears
the lamp is low and night is fell
and you have gripped my grief

instead make love of lies
let me listen to your loom
the fabric creased, trod already on the floor
the dawn is rippling on the lake
abstraction is belief

the flames have flickered out
now let the quiet be
the house breathes a bluish, chiding hush
itís better if itís brief




little dog playing in yellow soybean fields
tangled seed-pod-laden prehensile tendrils
cold morning - winter clothes packed in boxes
leaf-jewelled ears flit back home to sit for food




it is both true and good that the true is not the good




stoves are not hot
not most of the time
(this is a poem about trauma)
stoves iíd not touch
not most of the time




several little poems, brian brock, 2020-2023