I
Two men stand on a bridge, at evening,
Discussing a third. Three men stand on a bridge,
Representing a myth at evening. The men represent
The myth; the bridge represents the men;
The myth built the bridge. From this, we conclude,
Rather too hastily, that the myth wanted
To be represented. It built a bridge,
And that ought to be enough.
II
The most accurate poem in things is, in any case,
Always a dream that a bad poet is having. But if
That bad poet were the poet they dreamed of being,
They would unwrite the poem of their dreams,
And absolve the world of a terrible accuracy.
III
New bridges are always built at night, and always
Become old in daytime. Right now, things
Are invisible and all is one– right now, absolutely
Nothing more needs to be done. The world
Hovers in the nearness of amber, and
Humanity is an essential decoration sustained
In bad and better dreams. A railway imitates twilight.
IV
When, eventually, love songs are written
About this particular part of history, it will
Be noted (somewhat ruefully) that evenings
Are always the most difficult part of anything,
But also the strangest. Strangeness is easy.
It is almost perplexing how beautiful you are.
V
The inconvenient miracle of things, which settles
Rather neatly here– the only difficulty being, as
It were, decorative, a question of lighting and
Composition– has supplied us with a temperature
From which to look at each other. The most
Accurate poem of that miracle needn’t be written,
Or at least not yet, or at least not by me, which
Comes almost to the same thing– almost, but
Not quite all the way, which bothers me.
VI
I have written this poem as a nominal service
To the miracle, as it were for a local festival
Held on a bridge at evening, where two local
Priests discuss a third– where three priests
Represent a myth. I have written in honor of
A myth, inasmuch as the myth supplies the bridge.
There is a veneration in all of this, as I supply
The oil for the anointment and make the necessary
Gestures, as a bad poet dreams of being me. But
My being part of the scene is only an illusion:
One of the priests need only touch me to find
That I’m not here. I do not sponsor the blood
Sacrifice, and I will not be chanted
Into their nighttime. I am trying to steal something.
VII
As a creative artist (and I’m assuming a directness of attitude
Here), I do not want to add anything to the world,
But to take something out of it with me when I go. I want
Something old and easy to become difficult because
I’ve described it– I want to make some piece of conventional
Wisdom impossible to think. I want to be
The mother of a new crime, walking in the morning
Chill of innocence, surrounded high by aisles of sight,
By hands that clasp the chill, by archives of a silence
Whose articulation lifts through me, and through
My eyes upturned to where a God might be. I want
To spell a new and better innocence, with blue wisps
And strange colognes preceding me into oblivion.
VIII
The world is very candid when you look at it– you
See the way it changes, dips and ripples on the air,
Whose surface, too, is falling with us. The dawn’s
Heroic reservation masses on those hills. There will
Be a time when absolutely everything is new.
Two men stand on a bridge, at evening,
Discussing a third. Three men stand on a bridge,
Representing a myth at evening. The men represent
The myth; the bridge represents the men;
The myth built the bridge. From this, we conclude,
Rather too hastily, that the myth wanted
To be represented. It built a bridge,
And that ought to be enough.
II
The most accurate poem in things is, in any case,
Always a dream that a bad poet is having. But if
That bad poet were the poet they dreamed of being,
They would unwrite the poem of their dreams,
And absolve the world of a terrible accuracy.
III
New bridges are always built at night, and always
Become old in daytime. Right now, things
Are invisible and all is one– right now, absolutely
Nothing more needs to be done. The world
Hovers in the nearness of amber, and
Humanity is an essential decoration sustained
In bad and better dreams. A railway imitates twilight.
IV
When, eventually, love songs are written
About this particular part of history, it will
Be noted (somewhat ruefully) that evenings
Are always the most difficult part of anything,
But also the strangest. Strangeness is easy.
It is almost perplexing how beautiful you are.
V
The inconvenient miracle of things, which settles
Rather neatly here– the only difficulty being, as
It were, decorative, a question of lighting and
Composition– has supplied us with a temperature
From which to look at each other. The most
Accurate poem of that miracle needn’t be written,
Or at least not yet, or at least not by me, which
Comes almost to the same thing– almost, but
Not quite all the way, which bothers me.
VI
I have written this poem as a nominal service
To the miracle, as it were for a local festival
Held on a bridge at evening, where two local
Priests discuss a third– where three priests
Represent a myth. I have written in honor of
A myth, inasmuch as the myth supplies the bridge.
There is a veneration in all of this, as I supply
The oil for the anointment and make the necessary
Gestures, as a bad poet dreams of being me. But
My being part of the scene is only an illusion:
One of the priests need only touch me to find
That I’m not here. I do not sponsor the blood
Sacrifice, and I will not be chanted
Into their nighttime. I am trying to steal something.
VII
As a creative artist (and I’m assuming a directness of attitude
Here), I do not want to add anything to the world,
But to take something out of it with me when I go. I want
Something old and easy to become difficult because
I’ve described it– I want to make some piece of conventional
Wisdom impossible to think. I want to be
The mother of a new crime, walking in the morning
Chill of innocence, surrounded high by aisles of sight,
By hands that clasp the chill, by archives of a silence
Whose articulation lifts through me, and through
My eyes upturned to where a God might be. I want
To spell a new and better innocence, with blue wisps
And strange colognes preceding me into oblivion.
VIII
The world is very candid when you look at it– you
See the way it changes, dips and ripples on the air,
Whose surface, too, is falling with us. The dawn’s
Heroic reservation masses on those hills. There will
Be a time when absolutely everything is new.
Lucy Frost is an Arabic-American transgender woman poet from Austin, Texas. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Amethyst Review, Serotonin Magazine, C*nsorship Magazine, Wrongdoing Magazine, Melbourne Culture Corner, and Unpublishable Magazine. She can be found on Twitter @intomymachine.