CC-BY-NC.
Went up to cross you—
yes you—
footbridge slim,
two meters wide and you were long frowning,
though ever slightly, over Tatum.
Incorruptible, you always make ways to places not here,
as ponytailed Venezuelan boys wheelie cross
your parabolic back,
and the slow fluid fills
the ever-thirsty mouth
of Bahía Vizcaína,
who,
in the face of language,
is in fact,
a lagoon.
And the pelicans probe her in the night
as the kids make their way, ever eerily,
living freely, unknowing
of the hurt
they’ll soon cause too.
One side a’ you whitely lit
and the other
is orange aglow,
you trafficker in lascivious secrets,
those of teenagers, the body, the master,
a forever reminder
that we are all cursed to crossing over;
Something in the water here
makes lazy bones.
