The visitor etched the word “act.”
I don’t know why inside a heart.
Call it a moment of found art,
All gesture and little impact.
We’re staring out of a lost room
Through a cracked and discolored frame.
Bayside, metals and water boom.
The bright red bridge, in glorious bloom,
Guardian of what went and came,
Is like all things only a name.
With wrought iron and steel cable,
Men can create. They’re capable
Of containing the setting sun
But must let go when day is done.
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