“A Bridge I Cross on Fridays” The Sunday Whirl #160

If I look it’s only a ghost in the ground
away from the bale, where I cast my shadow.
Still appointing, it’s useless to raise a glass for my desire
in something vanishing that does not suffer,
unnecessary to visit the shattering
it adds to the intangible, where dust
keeps me in fascination’s threshold,
we are tied to one another.

I listen to the bridge man’s voice;
his fable intention, the embroidering figures call.
Recent creation hidden within a log
on clear land, so I won’t be a dream in
his beloved memory, by angels who disuse peace.

Frozen by widows who cry for death,
which has been with them all along.