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brianbrock.com estrella peak points at a star smog reddens into desert dusk 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 doesn’t 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, we’ll 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 don’t gaslight me it’s 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 it’s better if it’s 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 i’d not touch not most of the time several little poems, brian brock, 2020-2023 |