The other side of the bridge
disappears into darkness.
It is a longing,
bright and silver in
the moonlight this end,
stepping off into a void
on the opposite bank.
If were to cross it on foot
of course, little by little
it would open up,
it would get me some place.
But I'd rather sit and stare at
the death of beauty and color,
of visible, tangible things,
cross my rivers that way.
I still sit in bleachers,
watch the wind
circle the bases,
sunlight, thin and stretching
its hours only as far
as the tip of its fingers,
like someone warming up
who will never get his turn at bat,
From the bandstand,
someone plays taps.
Someone from this town
died in war,
like the rabbit I rescued
from the side of the road,
that great human conceit
that you can save a dead thing
and seal that saving
with it's own trumpet melody.
Someone maybe pitched from that mound,
faster than a gust
picks up some brown, dry leaves
and skitters them across the brown, dry lawn.
Maybe a young brown, dry man.
It's cold here.
Must be even colder
where those lips
are kissing metal,
where family gathers around the chill
the way they would a fire.
Love to sit in stadiums
this time of year,
the ball games put away
like passion.
Have to feel the hard wood
pressing against my flesh
like a young man's hand,
have to hear the creak
of rotting beams
like an old voice retelling.
Dance alone.
Lascivious jerking,
twisting, the orgiastic
kicking off
of the sneakers.
Lakeside, my father,
fish alone,
the still line
breaking the water,
third stanza
in an unfinished,
unbegun poem. Oh my clothes
spin away
like years
and I am down
to the hot air
flailing my naked buttocks.
And there is a tug
somewhere deep in his spine
certain as a fish.
And I will collapse
on the floor
in exhaustion,
crawl up into myself
like a finished unfinished thing.
And he will slowly
reel the catch in
and my body will move
unknown to me.
