A bridge in Vermont is not a bridge too Vermont. It's a postcard with heart-red snow and the white knuckles of an orphaned babe... twitching in a manger... but singing.
All glory to the smoke and the iron sun; too blunt. It's a porcelain shard of hard-dread luck and a dark hustle to the bottom of the sea... in waves - wishing even stranger... but undreaming.
yet amazed.
II
We are the brick and the butterfly.
You migrate as i nest in a shambles. As i launch - into stuck. You go from shore to shore above me. As I plunge into - stealth at rest.
III
We are the thing that ponders - the other thing that wanders off.... And we know the color of our grief.
It is Ironically blue and rueful. But it smiles inside - Like a dairy cow with idiot teats.
We are unfit to miss the Other; Forever. But our astrology is fickle as a lamb at a crucifixion. We have our gods, but cannot barter for a Lesser One than Love.
So we're condemned to our devotion like a locomotive heart to a groove in a chasm at last.