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The Brooklyn Rail

MAY 2019

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MAY 2019 Issue
Poetry

Grand Army Plaza


Someone's Beethoven dog drools crystalline ropes.
             "A Saint Bernard Newfoundland mix," his owner offers
                          to those who approach. "He's a good guy." "Geez
                                       Louise he's huge." That's really what she said. A probably

appropriate answer of leaves have fallen for the first
             of October. Two raincoats lead a bike to water. Pink kid
                          points to me to say, "mama," excited for names. Many carry
                                       cups in inessential headwear. A plane going over which I always
                                                    called Obama, what will I next, my love, my debt?

Brother at work can't answer whether humans won't be as good
             at 3D for all our screentime. Miscellaneous daily sins against
                          the body I uncover daily more of, its casements and sub
                                       mersions. Sentences I write in cells don't scan or dis
                                                    appoint me, though I am surprised still to be here
                                                                 always. Blue kid tosses stick from bridge: "RIP
                                                                              stick." And the people who pick up
                                                                              trash with the grasping tool
                                                                              have arrived in a van
                                                                              with Mariah.

                                                                                                        In early
                                                                                           October balm, fountains spray
                                                                              winding sheets o'er granite torsos black
                                                                 filmed with green. A lot of excitable
                                                    drapery in public statuary and wingbending
                                       birds of prey. Liberty not The but A
                          statue of I see in flagrant cape blown back
             by the winds of Shenandoah,
Brooklyn, New York.

"Light's another enemy," they say
             holding brown bottles overhead in a tent
                          where white people have gathered in rustic jackets.
                                       October first, long awaited day to some.

                                                                                                                     And a fact, the endless
                                                                                                        loop of vehicular traffic,
                                                                                           last to enter the poem.

                                                                                                                                               10/1/16

Contributor

James Loop

James Loop’s poetry and criticism has appeared or is forthcoming in Hyperallergic, Lambda Literary, Prelude, and elsewhere. He lives in New York and manages the Belladonna* Series.

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The Brooklyn Rail

MAY 2019

All Issues