Crossing the Bridge
There is a moment
on the bridge,
piles of clothes
along the margin.
The pile
is behind you,
the moment is
you looking
in the rearview.
Somewhere,
a clean white
minivan,
a family
gathering
fallen luggage.
You are
the margins.
The moment
is looking
back at you.
The bridge
is between
you and
the moment
you look in
the rearview.
It is only
the bridge,
it is in the shape
of you, the bridge.
The bridge is you,
you a part of it,
somewhere.
The bridge
is nothing,
only
the shape
of
it
now.
It is behind you.
Source: Poetry (September 2023)