You think the river is the thing to fear. 

Not the bridge. 

The bridge, which spends its whole life 

breaking a fall 

that never comes. 

Listen, 

even the moon is only sunlight 

arriving late. 

Even your name 

is a sound someone taught your bones 

to answer. 

When my grandmother died, 

the tomatoes kept growing. 

Red mouths opening 

all summer long. 

Nobody talks about this.

How the world continues 

with the tenderness of an accident.

Outside, the train passes. 

A long needle 

pulling evening through the fabric

of the town. 

You watch from the window

as if leaving 

could be practiced. 

As if distance 

were something measured in miles

instead of heartbeats. 

But look, 

the birds return each spring

without remembering the sky.

The trees lift their branches

without seeing the sun. 

Every living thing 

is moving toward something

it cannot prove exists. 

Maybe that is faith.

Or maybe it is hunger. 

Either way, 

morning arrives. 

The river keeps its silver tongue. 

And you, 

standing on the bridge, 

mistake your fear 

for the sound 

of becoming.