Edward Hopper’s Excursion into Philosophy, no. 1
His eyes, dark coins,
prayer rug of light at his feet
wan yellow of despair.
Her hair, a brushful
of magenta, brown bleeding
across the pillow.
Two fingers of whiskey
in stained coffee cups,
a profane communion.
Blouse unbuttoned, belts
uncoiled, zippers racing
each other in sync.
Let me read you something.
Questions from another age
ravel the thread of what is.
Breath, pulse, desire itself
by a single thought.
Edward Hopper’s Excursion into Philosophy, no. 2
Where a man takes you, Momma said,
says more about you than him.
Meaning you get what you deserve.
I get a room with a window stuck open.
An invitation to jump. Leaning out,
the light is so bright it stings my eyes
like saltwater when they hold you under
until you scream bubbles. Like those saints
bleeding for God in paintings, their wounds
thick red mouths. “Hey, get in here,” he barks,
reading to me on the edge of the bed
something about this best of all possible worlds.
Ken Hines writes essays and poems on matters he finds puzzling. Some of those pieces have found their way into The Millions, Philosophy Now, Barrelhouse, Mocking Heart Review and AIOTB. He lives in Richmond, Virginia.
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