“And, what is more, I have spent these bare months bargaining with my soul as if I could make her promise to love me when now it seems that what I meant when I said ‘soul’ was that the river reflects the railway bridge just as the sky says it should—it speaks that language. I do not know who you are. I come here every day to be beneath this bridge, to sit beside this river, so I must have seen the way the clouds just slide under the rusty arch— without snagging on the bolts, how they are borne along on the dark water— I must have noticed their fluent speed and also how that tattered blue T-shirt remains snagged on the crown of the mostly sunk dead tree despite the current’s constant pulling. Yes, somewhere in my mind there must be the image of a sky blue T-shirt, caught, and the white islands of ice flying by and the light clouds flying slowly under the bridge, though today the river’s fully melted. I must have seen. But I did not see. I am not equal to my longing. Somewhere there should be a place the exact shape of my emptiness— there should be a place responsible for taking one back. The river, of course, has no mercy— it just lifts the dead fish toward the sea. Of course, of course. What I meant when I said ‘soul’ was that there should be a place. On the far bank the warehouse lights blink red, then green, and all the yellow machines with their rusted scoops and lifts sit under a thin layer of sunny frost. And look— my own palm— there, slowly rocking. It is my pale palm— palm where a black pebble is turning and turning. Listen— all you bare trees burrs brambles pile of twigs red and green lights flashing muddy bottle shards shoe half buried—listen listen, I am holy.”
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