you never did cross it but still it remains
a pair of spectacles submerged in the river

on one side lies the pleasure district:
neon and ribbons, arc-welded limbs
the scintillation distractors

on the other: some home
or one light that was gutted then torn down
extinguished by passionate hopes

between them, one heartless bridge
a fiction beneath expatriate memories
the mind's dim canals . . .

of course being fake you'll make
a wide circuit round it
beating drums to scare mild geese
before dawn can catch its breath

but grim hesitation tracks you down
makes your heart skip beats

tripping over cracks in streets
sorrows like snow on an iron horse