Lawrence Bridges
The Healing Beach
This day will be over soon? Deep French horns and fog. There is
no corner in these hours to turn to or to hide behind, like an
expectant flight recessed in a travel day that doesn’t count. Why
is my first word “courage?” It is still dark, and the rote visuals
start in the kitchen we worked so hard to get with ample time to
reach out with a phantom limb for any task, to roll down to the
beach and read, to mind the clock and say again it’s fine. The
wrong
day began with the wrong questions. A space ray can’t
hurt us any more than it has. If you get up with it over, you’ve
found a reasonable beginning. Pull a shroud over screens,
sounds off; roll back to the healing beach.
Love Song with an Ocean View
Still in lockdown. I’m completely disorganized and here in
pajamas. Normally, when I see no contradiction, I’m missing life.
or business owners, it’s like holding a burning stick of dynamite
hile the fuse plays out faithfully, as long as the fuse grows faster
han the burn. Toss it before the rain stops! All this time, people
ave been weeping at windows for sunsets, perfect space station
ight on rising, white ocean calm. I stop fiddling and rush to wax
nd wash my car. Everywhere I look, there are people in light fit
or photographs.
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Lawrence Bridges has poems in The New Yorker, Poetry, and Tampa Review. He has published three volumes of poetry: Hores on Drums (Red Hen Press), Flip Days (Red Hen Press), and Brownwood (Tupelo Press). website |
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