We press against the cold stone
Two trolls under
The drip, drip, drip
Of this old stone bridge
Each edge of the
hewn stone
pressing in us
as we press together
soft against soft
until even that
gets hard,
the drip, drive drip
as potent as a
Chinese water torture
Only this is not China
And this is not water,
And the bridge is not
Refuge against the storm
We feel rising inside,
Our lives
Circumscribed
By this arch above us
And the rushing water
At our feet,
The swish of traffic
Rushing overhead
Unaware of our haunting,
We not so much
Fearing sunlight
As preferring the mood of gray
Twilight shares,
Needing no shades of it
To enhance the ache,
No artificial inducements
To increase the edge
Of what bookies out of us
Like points of stone
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