On the Third Avenue Bridge
over the only spot
where river flow can still be
seen, I let go
of the last trace
of your voice—recording
of how I don’t want
to remember you
erased. What’s left
are those moments
I could see you
still moving. Those falls
rush on a relentless
industrial music.
It’s tension. This talk
of the temporary. No shelter—
but a stretch
to represent. I
would not live
in a tent. To go
to parties means meeting
a man who says:
“Let’s light up
the Third Avenue Bridge.”
Not burn it
down. That’s a different party
on a different night.
Because the darkness can
be so random I rarely go
out without my torch.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 