Poetry by Devon Brock
When every sound is mere mechanic,when every bird is musicbox —muscular with plucked brass tines… When a wooden doglifts a smoke to my fingers,loaded,pre-sentry, then,the fridge becomes winter,and the fog…
It is down to small gestures:a forefinger lift from the wheel of a passing car,a glance and shallow grin, deepon a sunlit face,a hesitant wave, waist high,from a woman never…
Is this then recalibration — to wake,unspecified, undetermined,as if the means of producing a facemelted into the moon, and the alarm now —whines of coyotes, dog legon my hip, and…
On a day unlike ours — how many hourson a string loose strung does our starling love pulsebetween a pair of paper cups — You, over there, not far,but further…
Published in “Poetic Medicine in the Time of Pandemic” ©2020 by Lotus Leaf LLC.
Is this how stone hears rain?What an odd question to pose.But there it is: Is thisHow stoneHears rain? For now, today,this moment,this hour,this house.this body,this grain, Sits, As raindrapes over…
If I were a sunlit dog,I’d bask in the road,eat from your can,shit on your porch. If I were a sunlit dog,I’d be feral as cats,wily as ‘coons –the mouse…
Sweet and Bitter Greens 