Wouldn’t it have been cuteish to walk the bridge
pedestrian track, steel-netted to grid up the 5:15 picture:
Harmonious juncture of tree’d hills and gray
mirrored water and peach-wine dipped clouds –
all glory, glory, hallelujah! A gift
All the while shrugging the chill,
early March bite (a willful forgetting);
And the waggish tails of car, bus, truck exhaust
swirling in too many directions.
With the afternoon exhale,
better to wisely walk in the flaccid artery too –
among casks of husks,
husks of risks, expired in the wrapper.
(The swinging seed somehow unrealized) –
And soon to murmur between hunched shoulders
some cold cuttings of French,
(gelatinous, unrooted):
‘Un jour sublime,
Le Dieu supreme!’
But, passing, he does not even
glance
over his shoulder.
