Any Thing
The strap hung loose and the watch
tightened on the wrist;
it was two stories
one from the corner of each eye, housewares sinking
in a pool and a bed, new people in my space
leaving for work through the noisy door that nicks
your knuckles when you unlock it. The lock,
too, sinking rapidly in the pool. I follow the souls
up Twenty-First Street, subway, sinking
with trotting heads, all with wet hair.
The other an elegant garden of bedside tools:
clock, book, antacid, glass, and remote
against blue, a leg, then a falling woman's
body, then a man's, eyes on each other
or closed. Subway crashing me from thought,
breath ending where anything looks beautiful.
Lawrence Bridges' poetry has appeared in The New Yorker, Poetry, and The Tampa Review. He has published three volumes of poetry: Horses on Drums, Flip Days, and Brownwood with Red Hen Press.
The strap hung loose and the watch
tightened on the wrist;
it was two stories
one from the corner of each eye, housewares sinking
in a pool and a bed, new people in my space
leaving for work through the noisy door that nicks
your knuckles when you unlock it. The lock,
too, sinking rapidly in the pool. I follow the souls
up Twenty-First Street, subway, sinking
with trotting heads, all with wet hair.
The other an elegant garden of bedside tools:
clock, book, antacid, glass, and remote
against blue, a leg, then a falling woman's
body, then a man's, eyes on each other
or closed. Subway crashing me from thought,
breath ending where anything looks beautiful.
Lawrence Bridges' poetry has appeared in The New Yorker, Poetry, and The Tampa Review. He has published three volumes of poetry: Horses on Drums, Flip Days, and Brownwood with Red Hen Press.