you are the stillness
in my life

sanctuary

while all around the world rages

granite
the hardest rock
strongest foundation

I have clung here for safety
warmth and love
immeasurably given
gratefully received

I’ve been coasting down Granite State back roads
Twisting and winding
Intertwining with my thoughts
There’s an awful lot of road ****
Carnage in the streets
Bloodied and beaten to death
Memories so keen yet smeared
I breathe in
Cigar smoke slithers down my throat
I cough up a dead squirrel
It reeks of nostalgia
I pick up the corpse and toss is out of the car
Into a fire dancing across the road and up into the trees
I breathe in once more
Crisp, cool
But it burns
Fall always comes on so strong

I hear the carve of oars,
I see your palms enfold the wood,
as shards of stars shred
a black and glistening wave.

I hear the carve of oars,
the shore is breached,
we reach dank granite stairs, climb
a tower in moon gritty light.

I hear the carve of oars,
you speak, your turgid cheek
blue-steel-gray, your gaze grates,
my salt raged eyes summon waves and stars.

I hear the carve of oars,
waves rattle a candle's flame,
chill the bed frame, the wet stony room ––
the door closes, it scrapes.

I hear the carve of oars.
I know your lurching gate,
the clank as oar lock’s turn.
You slip the shore.
I hear the carve of oars

Copyright © 2002 Gary Brocks

I eat books of poetry for dinner,
and you are on the couch next to me.
I know we are here, but what do we call this?
I think the word is home, but it
sometimes feels like a serrated knife.
sometimes, it feels like we’re holding hands
in our sleep. There is a book of words like home
in my hands: it is full of empty driveways and watering cans,
and dancing under the moon,
I eat the words, but starve on the feast.
I would have broken you like granite; placed you
like a kitchen counter. You were never meant to be the cutting board.
You are the knife. I do not play with these domestic things.
Come sit at the table next to me, darling.