

We walk forward as if itapos;s a bridge to the far aways we discuss:
the abstracts. �
my ear phone is a bridge to her,
and sheapos;s smiling like she knows all thatapos;s left is Brooklyn.
but I�deny, deny. �moments are�bridges falling�
like splitting threads.
and we were high on the freedom from sense,
our limbs shifting random--
for once,
a moment without vodka or no-hours sleep.
we link arms in the park,
pretending-- lungs weak.
I wish we could have thudded into the water
to be consumed,
painted blue-green, encased, and left to float�
in our jackets full of film, and yellow,
as if weapos;d brought light.
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