This old bridge can’t draw
Still I crawl below
tying my things down in the dirt.
You come by to tell me
the dogs have run away
or that a man’s voice should fit
like a glove against your throat.
Then you shake my shoulders
so I’ll talk.
Wave after wave
a wet moon thrashes in the wind.
The littered shoreline breathes
and is bereft of sea.
I know no more, even less.
The radio scritters
and clirks. The origin of sound
unseen, but forever
crashing in staccato gasps of great
Come down from there
a little wiser now.