Monday, December 15, 2014



The sky and the water are equal,
equal, this is what this bridge
insists. The ground is affixed to
what is beneath it, dreams of trees
and bones, deep mineral thoughts
seeping into a place. And all else
is pastry, split sidewalk, water.

Maybe I’ll come back to this one
square of grass, or maybe when
I come back it’s cement, or maybe
my body never trusts it again
or maybe it stops trusting itself
and turns sinkhole, brings
the street with it, calling out
fire in the hole, where is the fire
that can make the darkness bigger.

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