In the strict new drama, half-bridges
line the river. An anti-architecture.
Brand new ruins. These voids, via their
deforming form, help us to discover
less and less. A reverse technology
in which progress becomes regress.
Maybe nothingness is now the final
frontier—a race to create the biggest
absence. Maybe those of us on either
side express a similar boredom. How
do we approach such erected erosion?
Standing at the end of a half-bridge,
should we engage a whole thought?
The river has thawed and is alive—
there is something going on in there.
If even our own movement. The dark
river magnifies us to ourselves. It
will be our compensation. Realer than
the world, we will not be moved.
By the wind or its avarice.