Prospect Park No. 1

The bridge is green and metal.

The sign on its arch is 1889.

The ducks are idle on the algae.

Everything sits on the surface.

Everything floats toward motive.

Underneath something scares me.


I grab my knees and stare.

There are points, scabs, and scars.

I still see the orbulent sun.

It lingers quiet between two trees.

I still hear two women seated to the side.

They are spilling their secrets, secretly.


A boy is fishing with a modern line.

Something tugs at him.

Something else tugs at me.

I see the water gliding this a way.

I see the one-eyed swan approaching.

Dropping its neck, it plunges into the world.




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