William Doreski<\/strong><\/p> \/\/\/
\n\n\n\n
Being rocks, they don\u2019t remember.
Or remember very little.
The streets square up to houses,
to the playground, tennis courts,
and the large but effete cemetery.
The rocks squat self-conscious
on lawns as tough and polished
as the law allows. I kneel
before one and feel its cold
shoulders try to shrug me off.
The householders often catch
rock-worshippers like me
leaning into their property,
but almost never call the police.
Glacial erratics are common
in the Boston Basin, their weight
much of what holds us together.
I would like to stroke the surface
of these three fine examples,
but don\u2019t want to actually trespass
without theology to back me.
The cool dusk pools in the street.
The cries of kids in the playground
recede like an ebbing surf.
I\u2019ll take photos to prove that these rocks
thrive in this plain old suburb.
And then I\u2019ll wander off with hands
roughened by imagining that
I\u2019ve spent a lifetime worshiping
stone that hardly ever responds.
\n\n\n\n
William Doreski has published three critical studies and several collections of poetry. His poetry, essays, fiction, and reviews have appeared in many print and online journals. He has taught writing and literature at Emerson, Goddard, Boston University, and Keene State College. His most recent books are A Black River<\/em>, A Dark Fall<\/em> and Train to Providence<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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