Approaching
the bridge deck.
In the back of my neck,
that feeling:
to be bursting out
of a howling whirling womb
and to come to life
for the first time.
A sudden silence
cloaks klaxons and brakes.
In the metallic height
wire-dancers
hang together
- ghosts
weaving a iron web.
I forget them.
The water below
rocks
a craddlesong
and the riverbank
again is the wild freshness
of green and blue,
frontier undisclosed.
The tunnel lies ahead
to bury my sight
and it sips me
back into the
immured swirl,
colourful masquerade
of lit agony.
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 6:54 PM UTC
Approaching
the bridge deck.
In the back of my neck,
that feeling:
to be bursting out
of a howling whirling womb
and to come to life
for the first time.
A sudden silence
cloaks klaxons and brakes.
In the metallic height
wire-dancers
hang together
- ghosts
weaving a iron web.
I forget them.
The water below
rocks
a craddlesong
and the riverbank
again is the wild freshness
of green and blue,
frontier undisclosed.
The tunnel lies ahead
to bury my sight
and it sips me
back into the
immured swirl,
colourful masquerade
of lit agony.
13.08.14
Been obsessed with this title; love bridges, never been in Brooklyn, though.
