When packing bodies into
cylindrical clothing, notice
how pressures shape,
arc with contentment,
flow easily around corners
bent happily into bulges.
Bridges inscribe nothing: they sponsor
only temporary conditions. What
you want is to bend rivers
at will, like bending planetary orbits
and dumb meteors so hopelessly
at the mercy of what is massive. What you
do not want is a view, a monument
made for an instant of easy sleep,
tormented beauty: the same hook
pried like parasites from insatiable
mouths, jaunty grins, saturnine
seagulls on homesick boulders.