Miles Waggener – Ⅱ
Festooned with melting ice,
trestles buoy themselves in wisps across the river.
The rusting frame, a bridge,
a derelict carnival ride
sinks into the sticks. More weather is coming,
and the way home, another flight
of the alone to the alone, telescopes out
into a block of slick Tarmac,
where piled like euthanized pandas in an open cart,
our bags await their handlers.
Through the metallic winks
of the climb-out, the once manifold
shards, the cracked surfaces
are, at a glimpse, whole again
in the sinew and sheen
of distant animals the wind is braiding
together at full gate, the farthest
reach of lightning, irretrievable and
funneling up the draw
through a fissure
of day breach
you are just beginning to see.
Note: “life is the flight of the alone to alone”–Plotinus