The Bridge

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.