through clay sighed life
the bridges from long
ago; all beings, all flesh,
unborn carnal nude,
in their skin slept woe,
beyond it, fetal anarchy;
a walk on the land,
each of them a seat under,
the bridges; by the gods,
sat by the angels: a seat for
closed eyes, three swings,
and three sighs — should
you be reborn, should you
repent,
but a man, a curious man,
had closed one eye
had swung four times
had sighed twice
the bridges who sighed
through clay
had coughed death
through them
desire had become carnality
horror had become nudity
killer had become flesh
bridges had become stones
the bridges we walk on now
are burial of human virtue
