Suspension

Nothing burns the bridge, and then it burns.
- Terese Svoboda

Once you cross, as you must,
you cannot go back. There is nothing
to retrieve: when the bridge catches fire,

leave it all. Your hair, your hands
may be lit; if you take photographs
into your arms, they too will burn.

You can see the lights of the city
you left behind, but in miniature
from the distance, a diorama.

When the bridge falls, the smoke
of its scaffolding hangs in the air,
burning our eyes. This is architecture

in the new world: the mere shadow
of structure, the suspension bridge
refusing to suspend. To be light

enough to cross, you must be less
of yourself. Remove everything
down to your wristwatch.

Whittle yourself to transparency.
Cross the bridge as it burns, sparks
in the wisps of your hair, and don't

look back. It is already turning
to smoke. Soon it will not hold you.