Nathaniel Dean James

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The Bay Bridge - Reflections On Yesterday

We broke the night to a deep-kick bass line beneath the barnacled pillars of the old Bay Bridge.

And I would give July back to the summer sky to run the lines of your hand to the knuckle ridge.

Memory is static motion, a cruel notion, a tidal wave of the rarely spoken, pictures faded and mostly broken.

Glance away and you miss something vital, overlook the meaning, leave the point on the floor as you float to the ceiling.

By the time I opened my eyes my bones were brittle, my mouth too dry.

In a beggar's heartbeat youth and vigor had surfaced only to passed me by.

All of this in such stark contrast to the promises we made each other, to sneer at death and live forever.

It's funny how we always pretended that nothing ever ended, that time is stupid when you're young and clever.

I hate growing up now even more than before, two lonely words in a dark and ominous score.

And yet If I close my eyes I can still hear you laughing, a sweet sound, bare feet on soft ground.

They say the world is smaller now, closer somehow, a stone's throw to anywhere in the blink of an eye.

Perhaps I'll save for that bus ride, set off on the fool's tide, and find you if only to kiss you goodbye.

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