I walked across that industrialized
bridge.
Looked overthrow; watched
the nuggets of white
floating down this gelid river.
So peculiar and timid,
the last of their kind.
Now, here, in this empty house
on this empty street--
I write poetry to ease my
freezerburnt hands.
I want to wander within the night
Look for the answers that I so
achingly search.
Perhaps written on some blank
piece of concrete?
Traced with your fingertip in
cold April sand?
Some figure made from twigs and rocks,
Pagan symbolism to show love?
Still,
Heedlessly wondering
about the nuggets of white--
That bustle past, on the close
river highway.
