Carrie Etter Over the Thames
If sadness began the bridge, a buttress
for the arc over the river, some would trust
the traversing more.
I would. How many let the newspaper graze
their foreheads to wear the ink communally,
to make an anthem
of a private dirge? I cannot name the tethers
that hold the curve taut, the path’s
line straight from
bank to bank: there is no universal
for what keeps us aloft, but O
I cherish it.