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Issue 18

Poetry » JC Hopkins »

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Broken, Splayed Perfection

We were built to spoon
My 5’10” to your 5’2” and a half
Solipsistically speaking
I and U and the mercurial vortex
Transplant this life into the next

Sporadically it continues
With brokered interruptions
Moving massive asphalt rainbows
In this new Cleveland
Where we reside in irony

I am 8 inches taller than you
15 years older
All is perfection- broken, splayed perfection
Who will outlive whom?
As irrelevant questions go
That is one of them

And the tilted chair
Distinctly un-falling
As in a mirror
Of oil and linseed and mystique
Closely represents our completion
And renders still waters oblique

What With The Sound of Sirens

The place
That posits
A realistic tranquility
Has not been written
At least not here
In Brooklyn
In this century
I only say it because
My umbrella is broken
And my hamstring is tight

The sun hits my son
On a sidewalk square
And his mother wears a red coat
And goes to the Unitarian church
In Brooklyn Heights
While I read Balzac
Peddling esoterica
To the androgynous numbers
On Leonard Street

I looked out my window today
And saw parrots in the trees
That had come from Greenwood
Was watched as they feasted
On the strange berries
Green luminescent feathers
I want to say that it was a bit of tranquility
But that would be an exaggeration
What with the sound of sirens