Stuck again on Calvin’s ever-
widening bridge to nowhere
the motor idling, the radio moaning,
the bumper in front of me extolling
car-less ideals that fade and jade
in a jam like this.
Just downstream, Cole’s Ox and
bow is pierced and paved by Interstate
91. The hum of determined business surrounds
me. Looking north to the rusty railroad trestle, a
new train of words sprayed there: “Nick! Now All
Your Rage Belongs To US!”, it says.
From there to here, a scroll of river
spools out, unraveling from piling post to piling post
like a primitive movie of sky, its wet/negative film
narcissing no one in particular
except the pigeons
playing in the space between the bridges
their bellies full of wonder
(bread)
their air-hung assembly flapping as one single
pirate flag, announcing no sanctioned trade,
dancing, swooping together for sheer lack of reason
(not to)
a Bolshoi of winged rats, done with their scavenging today
purple-blue statue stainers
bleaching game-theory of its intentions one
beautiful drop at a time.
Beating the sense out of me with
forty pairs of dirty wings, doing me
the favour of forgetting which side
of the river I started out on, and what
