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.