The return to hedge protection
and sleep, dying by the ocean,
neuron families adding up to smell
or fidgets in the heart. Meet it
coming in perverse formations of verbs,
liken it to dearth, itch reading,
and slumber interrupted - I’ve climbed
clasping two hands that can’t close,
decorated arms until they feather,
strengthened beyond shirt,
and tossed a shoe to a telephone line.
No signal in this noise but glory
of noise and frog feet
and loose pizza and carnival
wrappers bleeding over
low-tide rocks plucked
of abalone decades ago.
Now we’re barefoot runners again
on laughing roadways laughing at sharp pebbles.
About the Author
Lawrence Bridges' poetry has appeared in The New Yorker, Poetry, and The Tampa Review. He has published three volumes of poetry: Horses on Drums, Flip Days, and Brownwood with Red Hen Press. Visit him online at lawrencebridges.com.