Inventions (Michael Antman), Sonnet #570

 

We live where light and rust

Mount in measured layers

Like lovers without lust,

Or gods without prayers.

Who invented the bridge,

That fluvial sacrilege,

Or endless skyscrapers

Assailed by old newspapers?

They can’t blot out the sky

Or dry up the rivers —

Just twist the eye awry

Till the brainstem quivers.

Throw light on slabs of glass

And vertigoes will pass.

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My Human Disguise.

Swinging Bridge, Belvidere, IL (Bill Eklund), Sonnet #220

There's just this moment, this perfect moment.
The past is there for us, but almost nil,
A deep and half-lit cave we mine each night
For silver only we can melt or mint,
Or capture in a photographic print.
The future is not even something still,
But a river of invisible light,
Empty of anything the light might strike.
Today, the swinging bridge has a locked gate,
At the other end of the span, its mate.
Years past, I crossed it whenever I'd like.
At its bellied center I'd fish for pike,
Or throw my weight and make it slowly swing.
Without me here, I'd think, there is nothing.