The Ghost Bridge

Here is the drifted root, the bottom of the heavy afternoon: I long for the sense that time is not beyond me. But it has gone on, as I have, and we are under the bridge of rust, baked in the sun and lost from justice. It’s not that nothing right was done, it’s just that the loneliness of space took us over, and we went back to being children. We wandered along with the sun, its proud march melting our aspirations, reforming them each day. I wished I was you, even though you wanted me more than I could conceive. Trucks made their own wind on the streets where no people walked. Only ghosts forgot, and the rusted bridge collected everything we saw: all busted goblets and glittered coiffures, little starry-dusted starlets tripped behind us while we cried, deep in our joy of solitude.