Bridges, I

Have we no more beginnings, ‘s the folio filled,

and the last leaf of that jumbled-up bundle been spilled?

If so, merely shuffle-arrange them until

some resembling-a-story ghosts forth from the chill

of mem’ries all frozen, constraining the will

to nutritionless, spectral,  repetitive drills.


If we have a future, it’s one I can’t see;

dark forests spread flanking to gobble the light

of my eyes’ broadcast beams, which test fiction dreams,

and illuminate paths upon which my flight

occurs; stooped, eyes up, I proceed –lacking schemes–

to woods, alien, groping on through the night.

4 thoughts on “Bridges, I

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