j o r d a n    s t e m p l e m a n

one

four

six

one

No matter who
takes over the world,

they will build
within us one stiff

twin called astonishment,
unable to ever unlive.

To become spiritually
perfect, look for

the spiritually perfect
to have fearful symmetry—

I’m not dead—
of this is grief,

from this empire
the imperfect will form.

One hot time
ago, you wondered alone,

be right, be
lighter as, talk about

one mind meaning
too much to another

but keeping alive
is not the same

as kept alive.
I am biologically listening

to the cooling
allegations of just about

anything that particular.
There’s a long voicemail

of a phone
that won’t quit ringing

and I’m talking
over it, ordering pounds

of recaptured daylight
for when we undergo

the ridiculously dark
oceans, the strangers’ closets,

our strangers’ closets.
Tragedy, at it’s worst,

is the order
that so clips away

at our shaped
what’s missing. Marie, I

declare, I declare
Marie, how much more

understanding should we
take? It’s stopped raining.

That’s more interesting.
I’m coming in now—

don’t you wonder
if we’re also disastrous?

next

four

It wasn’t true
that somewhere you’d answer

me, and then,
I’d answer you. Cheep

goes the birds.
Just for once, remember,

is the point.
I’m pretending your time

is my time,
is, tell me again

where I am?
Oh, how terribly disproportionate

the nights are
to our days. Support,

support the knowable
for our growing unknown.

Support, our singular
good, and the loss

that comes before
I knew you. Possibly,

you’re the noteworthy
loss that the universe

still can’t understand,
still can’t quite comprehend

how you got
here, where you’ll go.

We may say,
invention tried so hard

to become this
forward way of knowing

until outlasting enough.
Please be careful, Jim

from becoming more
than you are. Jim,

be careful enough
to leave cities bright

and badly informed.
They too come apart,

see stars, exaggerate
the number of airplanes

carrying the weight
that only a few

will ever know.
I can’t tell you

I’ll someday be
maintained by an infinite

look. In human
weight, sometimes, there’s nothing

wrong with carrying
on—two floating ducks

and a person
to kiss. Nothing wrong

with somehow forgetting
the ducks, talking through

the kiss, adrift
and unsafe by comparison.

next

six

Is it struggling
to be overly aware,

phenomenon of, no,
couldn’t I mean something

closer to that,
before letting it out?

With the time,
or, without the time,

my ugly, unruly
children, speak. Heavens darken

and the itching,
the tender spot of

outwardness, how itchy
it gets when old

children, trailing behind
their old, slimy trails,

speak for me,
Marie. It’s peaceful, except

for the whatever,
the clean up, whatever

I’m calling this.
Oh circus, trust me,

being reconsumed, taken
in by the earth

is fantastically better
than rearranging our minds.

We’ve moved on.
We have praise, dances

that are soundless,
I know, soundless, forever

there. Think dance,
go dance, move on.

I am mystified
by how truly accessible

you and I
are, Marie. I wonder,

do these children
have the mind, besides

the early longing
to want nothing more

than the precise
bother of being precise?

You’re right, Marie.
Death is the most

inhuman walk around
ourselves. Such places, think

and say nothing
of such places. I

don’t sound like
anybody here. I promise

I’ll keep quiet
if you keep quiet.

next

JORDAN STEMPLEMAN is the author of six books of poetry. His most recent collection, Doubled Over, was published by BlazeVOX Books in 2009. Individual poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in Colorado Review, Court Green, The Hat, The Laurel Review, New American Writing, Notnostrums, and Sixth Finch. He teaches at the Kansas City Art Institute and is the Associate Editor of The Continental Review: a video-only forum for contemporary poetry and poetics.

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