Once there was a bridge I couldn’t cross.
Cusp of summer. Sound of insects
carried with me, from Melville’s fields
in my-heart-on-the-bridge, their zzzz.
Year’s end, now. A theory of edges. A vow
to complete certain tasks—they will not
improve me, but dissipate, burn off
like vapor. I’ve already been too good.
I thought keys would fly out of my pocket
and then I would have to fly after,
to enter the terrifying room
where things blow away to.
Scraps of lists, a paper flower,
the raspberry clouds of the day’s
attenuation. A series of signs said
help was there, but not for me.
Copyright © 2025 by Elisa Gabbert. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on July 21, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.
