when you're out on the bridge
with neither end in sight, in the middle
or three-quarters way, barely there or
nearly-- never call the unsteady, the
hands that reach through the fog
or slap the waters through the
abutments,

you can love across wounds
with those who meet you, or
find their way, feeling the stones
gripping the railing, they've seen
you at the crossing and have come
to share the burden

but you keep calling, you keep
pacing, you've been waiting,
imbued with confusion, your
old self a ghost, all your worries
to the surface, belly up.

you've been inspired for all the wrong reasons.
You leave him alone.
I've been inspired for all the wrong reasons.
I leave him alone.