The Winter bridge is a large reptilian wind siren;
dripping waning Moonlight from its cold, steel fangs, to champion a lost jumper;
the least loved in a moment of bleak, black cavern hell,
where a plumed man plummets to the ice that chews a panicked body,
and shocked skin; estuary to eat remains.
The form—a surreal, warm sacrifice;
given after nine months of careful health and hours of labor; years of labor.
Before entering the monstrous mother, he did not consider his blood mother.
I knew an artist who painted with river mud.
His final opus was dragged to the October-chilled shore of pre-dawn fogs,
and marital estrangement;
whose scarred life and manic meditation walked
from a Crane parapet to the gray visage of a glacial descendent.
He campaigned for new poetry; a secret language
understood only by the obsessed, and Mad.
Autumn river called. Winter river called.
Dead of Winter, the end of a year; another form to drop from the span.
No Bertolozzi Bridge Music; only angry gusts!
True freedom is choice; ability to say no;
to ride northwinds one hundred feet down to the chasm;
or wander, wincing in Winter razors, across the face and throat;
no scream; bridge traffic; watching sleeping drivers cross the ice battered Hudson.
Hazards still on, reentering the coach, Volkswagen's warmth,
sealing him in from the endless cold.