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on the Brooklyn Bridge By Shep The river here is laden with the commerce of the seas irridescent with oil moving as ever to the ocean caught in a temporal groove from beginning to end of a downhill journey. I see it below through gaps in walkway boards that wear the weather of their lives in grained and dense solidity - ridges and valleys cut from a concentric record of wet years and dry. Layered above this older history cigar-scar boot-dent stain and scratch preserve the tracks of walkers who have passed this way, paused, and for a moment rested here. Suspended in a web of steel between sky and the reflection of sky I raise my arms in emulation of the cables' parabolic grace - Tensile meridians cascade to me and we capture in timeless genuflection a stillness beyond the river's teeming flow, the soar and dive of raucous gulls. Angel wings on either side of me ascend to gothic arches and down again to Brooklyn and Manhattan shores. The moment stretches out like a cable strand spun taut and singing the perfect one unwavering note. |
