My love and I reside upon the belly of a bridge
with heartbeats of the sky?–the drums upon the bridge.
I’ve heard of songs that rise at night from pitch black oceans.
I’ve heard the strums of lyrics made by four hands on a bridge.
My love and I do landscapes for the gardens of the sea.
At night we sleep as seedlings at the center of its bridge.
Once I saw a Sufi breathe in seabirds, and send them out again.
I’ve seen people bearing blindfolds near the entrance of a bridge.
My love’s old love, he says, had tried to douse him in a moat.
He grew gills to save himself and hid beneath a drawbridge.
The masters speak of magic at the middle of the rings
where Yes and No chase each other round the props of any bridge.
My love’s new love, some say, makes far too much of things
as fundamental, elemental, as the structure of a bridge.
