Dva Mosta / Two Bridges

Serrures de l'amour

Cross a bridge threaded lightly with mist he drifts -at least becomes aware of himself as a figure drifting somewhat absently, a paradox if one thinks about it, a contradiction in terms, which of course he does, as always, ‘terribly and unceasingly’, a tired and tireless affectation, the criticism occurring automatically just as suddenly, a feedback loop set in perpetual motion- feeling ‘the weight of each step’ and casting meaningful glances at the just-coming-into-being morning air, ‘slab-like and styptic’, the ‘sepulchral tangle’ of the tree limbs ahead; regarding the padlocks latched to the latticework each side and recalling their mute significance; lavish engravings jostling with plainer inscriptions and the cheap stand-ins of permanent marker gone purple with rain and years; opening briefly, his mind’s eye, onto the watery vista of his first encounter with just such a bridge, her explanation, bright-voiced, his naifish heartswell, how a smile can be carried by eyes alone -at least remembered that way- striking him as ironic now, the memory, or if, no, not that, at least the subsequent contemplation, bitter-edged, ‘idle’, the ‘symbolic reversal’ of propelling oneself, ‘deponticating’, outwards -the flailing, disjointed impact, the smash into clear murk below- the incontrovertible cold of it. The shimmer of the locks like piano keys pressed by a gust of nimble sunlight.

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