Golden Gate, cont.:

Clouds shift and re-shape themselves
around a slow-moving sun, the blinding
pivot-point. Like a negative image
of the dark whorl of the past

whereunto I turn... and to what end?
What goodness lies in climbing (blind)
back into a forest of faint imagery?
The bridge is not a tower. Horizontal,

friendly, it reaches from bank to bank,
backwards, forwards, back and forth,
a humble road underwriting titanic pride
(those vast suspension gates, sun-drenched

masts of vertigo) – mere bearer of traffic.
The clouds drift by above, the river moves
and moves beneath... and someone slowly
dances along the parapet, a whorl

upon my brainstem, an anchorage –
motionless in timespace – a spiral, a J
and so the bridge (humilitas)
is a towering door (sublimitas)

and I must walk through the gate again
with my eyes closed, and step to the edge
(like her) into empty


grey whale, or child
hid away in the amygdala
grey pigeon or dove, grey rock
amid limestone (iris-tinged)


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