Bridge Vision


Carolyn Guinzio





It is undone by rot, over a creek in knots of twigs

unhooked and crooked in roots that sink into its edge:

the bridge between your being here and not. Under

a sky that drops or does not drop a cold blue rain,


figure in green-grey oaks half-lit or lit in mist unbowed

by bows of rain that fight off sun, as if the sun dissolves

the shade instead of making shade where nothing was.

A curtain blue in blue shade hangs between a wafting


curl, a set of bones in smoke and rain. In darkness,

we can fool ourselves. A shadow dissipates in light,

becomes a shade, an undulating plume of gray, and that

is you. A rotting bridge is all that stands between


the flesh becoming smoke, dissolving back into a sky

that hangs upon the living standing on the dead.















Carolyn Guinzio’s new collection, A Vertigo Book, won the Tenth Gate Poetry Prize and will appear later this year.  Carolyn Guinzio is online at



 ē·                                                        <  ē·  >