Elsenseig Bridge

       (Berlin, 9:26 pm, for graf artists)

                                                                 From the peak of concrete bridge and iron rail,
                                              I see the next road reflect off still river,
                                      a rippled mirror as if made by a master-
                                   craftsman of the Enlightenment.

                            Funny how humans can’t make a circle
                       without help. Would not have flown
                    without birds, bugs or bats.
                  It’s nice to be alone so close

             to so many people I don’t understand.
           A forsaken boat floats under the far arch
          removing graffiti with another layer of paint.
       Like the sunset. Like the map of the earth.

    Like how there are now fewer planets.
  An orange cloud sits and spies
from a sky taken for slanted, a level
forbidden for naked humans.

                                                                                                            Trees try to reach. Some can.
                                                                                                      Not for fame. Privacy is freedom
                                                                                              not in name. I want to watch someone
                                                                                                    vomit from the bridge. Want to

                                                                                                                  watch someone fall in: kids
                                                                                                 on a bed, an old lady with two
                                                                                             bug-eyed terriers, a Citroen van,
                                                                           a cargo ship from 1682, a satellite, a space

                                                        station, an asteroid, the whole full goddamn moon
                                                                                             mash this city into sand. If
                                                                                an artist must risk all assumption,
                                                                    supposed knowledge and social sanity,

                                                    then watch the spraypainter wait and laugh
                                                  at the poor bastard in the boat, as night
                                                     approaches like a black hole into
                                            which only creativity can escape.


Daniel Pravda is a teacher and beachcomber. His poems have recently appeared in American Dissident, Cedar Creek Review, Dead Mule, Hamilton Stone Review, Poetica, and Vine Leaves. He also fronts a band called The Dunes.
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