| Meditations
On A Bridge In Winter
Will there be some in-the-air gulp of ultimate philosophy? fly-dive into the hard dark river with no fame to precede like Berryman, no biographer awaiting my mystifying completion life-end dark as life-lived. Anonymous woebegone fool standing slumpedly wind-harrowed. Where are the shouted discouragements, the jocular applause? Not having the stance for grace, no into-destiny Olympic swan dive, a clown's leap to crack my bones on the cold water turned pavement. I shrink from the bad poetry or it, the final rapturous incandescence of regret, body bursting from reason beyond grammar and skin and the small calumnies, infinite and small at once. J. W. Major |