UNDER THAT BRIDGE



disabuse
yourself of
this —
it's only in
foxholes
we
dirty ourselves
urgently
quietly
waiting for
somebody else's
salvation like
a train that never
comes
it is only
in
trenches
we sing
only in
the steel
gut of
morning
awake to
something
spineless
that tells us
there is daring
under that bridge.
but
under that
bridge is
only flight.


© Jayne Lyn Stahl
Originally published in The New York Quarterly, Number 64, Page 62
All rights reserved.