The Brooklyn Rail

MAY 2019

All Issues
MAY 2019 Issue

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.



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.


The Brooklyn Rail

MAY 2019

All Issues