On the Bridge

There is time enough in the day
to be perfectly still:
inhale carcinogens
exhale exuberance.

On the bridge over the river
that splits city into halves:
keep your eyes closed.

You already know what is below,
and for that matter what is above:
peach light you feel through your eyelids.

You need not reify in your mind
the sun-faded curtain squares
from cement block apartments
that wave in the cracked window breeze.

The river will go on glistening without you.
Crippled, frayed, and strange
we find our way because
there is no way to find but
the glint of color behind closed eyes,

the racket of traffic over the bridge,
dried purple blossoms that clatter in the gutter,
and exhaled breath over the city
that only you can hear.

By: MaryAnne Hafen

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MaryAnne Hafen is a conservationist with an affinity for desert plants. She lives on the edge of the Great Basin with an engineer, a misnomer cat, and too many houseplants. Her poetry has been published by Quarter Press and Querencia Press.