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MATTHEW ZINGG

Bridge Views
    
            
[1]  

During the day a bridge is a fishbone caught
in the throat, a beached whale, and often in the sun

the froth of tidewaters,

a disappearing act, a glitch buried in the deep sludge-
mud of our nerves.

By night it’s a natural type of fire,

the anemone glow of headlights

shift inside their constellations. We hold our breath.

We tuck the salt air into our pockets and wrap

scarves of wind around our necks.


 
[2]

Vision is such a casual ballet.

Maybe you never thought

the earth could be this flexible. It has always felt flat.

But those sodium lights are really meant to woo

the darkness. They are the white flags of surrender.

There is a bridge in China. At least once a week,


someone throws himself off of it.

That’s almost enough to set your watch by.

Do the dead in the Yangtze act as mediators

between the two shores? Do you know anyone

at the bottom of this river we can depend on
to level the playing field?

Each map has its own scale.


When we count the distance of lightning

your seconds are longer than mine. I’ll be honest

when I lie. I don’t know your name. You are

a smaller version of me.




61   The Paris-American

Picture
Matthew Zingg's poetry has appeared in The Madison Review, The Awl, Muzzle, Blackbird and Opium Magazine, among others. His criticisms can be read in The Rumpus and forthcoming in The American Reader. Zingg received his MFA from Adelphi University and lives in Brooklyn. Photo was taken by Jillian Brall.


   
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 Nicholas Aiezza
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