Crossing the bridge in fog
Crossing the bridge in fog
A white river surrounds me.
At the white forest
I enter throught a white wall...
enter a nation of white illusion,
the wedding of cloud,
river and air.
The sun is a god-coin
hammered
into the silver-white wall.
Time ceases.
Crouches like a cat.
Tail of twitching mist.
The bridge I cross is a black shelf
extending into an incalculable distance.
A distance from which I will never return.
posted by Anonymous @ 12:37 PM
1 comments
1 Comments:
Lovely fog images - as you said yourself, “fog changes things.” Someone at a poetry site said the other day: “The last line of a poem should kill the rest of the poem.” This made me raise an eyebrow, quite sure I didn’t believe that - and yet. And yet. A really incredible ending does often sort of stab, or snap, or impale something somehow. You have a deft touch with endings, Mike. What do you think makes a poem end just the way it should?
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