poem

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.