Poem In Which We Fall From Grace And Overcoat by Jake Brukhman

(Originally appears in Poems In Which, Issue 5.)

A speck in fog, the wet
Prometheus lights His pipe
and waits among
the dust grains of the shore.
He taps the lost
crabs in His seaweed plush
and checks the belly.
She is female.

Only a turbine wind
now sings the birthdays
of the seas.
Once gods,
now sooted,
we may choke on sea bones.
High froth extinguished
an eternal flint.

Then the curtains
flow long
over a mattress
length’s soft
arrowed three-pronged song
of a Prospect Park loft.
And come comets,
come, to commiserate,
ring the foot
with bangles,
fish the dangling hooks
from our
fawn-white ankles.

Whiskey In Darkness by Jake Brukhman

Later, with the dishes put away —
    “Do you take bourbon?”
Just a sip,
Or two.

With April’s columns
Stepping freely over girders,
North Brooklyn’s water-towered hill
Wanes black, framed on the pane’s wide altar.

These urban idols, watching heavily
By back wires, — the saffron vapors
Roll a major-seventh, and diminish;
Swift nose and body, then a groggy finish —
Thirst for lit bodies, bodies in windows.

As towers fixed,
We let the shadows gather
Into pitch and hours without price
Or value —
    “Why are we still talking?”