Saturday, November 13, 2010

The Bridge (Eliot Cardinaux)


The hum of summer,
arched brow of the transparent bridge,
half-finished to heaven.
I learn again
what I know of knowledge,
leaning against the mystery.

I find it open,
this door to the desert
from the myths.
It’s not the water
smoking in the east,
the sun is not a thing like this,
an idea that drinks itself
from the borders.

Calm like a Moorish song,
I watch an old dance.
The flowers growing up,
the sky with clouds flowing
at a faster pace than I.

The bridge is my road –
two musics, of land and of sky
mount a horse that left me
on my way from the forest.

And I must play
on the strings of night
the sorrow of the land
to clear the air
of a laugh that wounds
a million stars.

The bridge is where a stranger
once stumbled upon himself
in the music of the stranger
and learned again
what he knew of knowledge
on which a mystery now leans.                 

EC, July 2010

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