Bridges, A Refrain
The bridges I want belong to you: mud and burgundy.
So I am building, instead, in tinctures:
I’ve one of ribbon and one of rosemary.
I know the streets are a solvent of vinyl and helix,
but the ratio eludes me. The algorithm, so elegant
and a little too indignant—I can’t quite grasp the tint of it.
A man with hair like heartache carries the hood
of a car. It is shelter and city and something
not dissimilar to silence. Behind them, a woman named
Gabe speaks into witches: 1, 2, 3-7-5. She’s
a consolation set to the pace of primes.
You settle into a shaft of song. Typeset bottles crumble
toward daylight. You’ve been months
at this, untraveling yourself along
pinewood petals and the scent of blue.