Terry Ehret
Bridge
Brief heat, music in a car, breathing declarations, foghorn
moon. You drive the night away from the unmatched columns,
the hard predictables, one hand on the wheel, one elbow leaning
on the ledge of the window. Driving as if you could across a
bridge across the night-pulse. Crest and fall into the unbound
lane, the unforeseen love of a man at the end of all the letters.
Driving as you need to be, not anywhere, but music in a car or
the river below the surface. Stones at night warm from the
afternoon, the afternoon a man appeared, absent of dreams.
The summer you braced yourself like a passenger on the verge
of a head-on collision, you lived inside one body learning the
logic of tombs in the streets of an invented city. Now the night
drive swells like music. Thoughts decay, bridged between. Now
each swell falls into air. Splinters.
Weightless