On A Bridge In Winter
Will there be some in-the-air gulp
of ultimate philosophy?
fly-dive into the hard dark river
with no fame to precede like Berryman,
no biographer awaiting
my mystifying completion life-end dark as life-lived.
Anonymous woebegone fool
standing slumpedly wind-harrowed.
Where are the shouted discouragements,
the jocular applause?
Not having the stance for grace,
no into-destiny Olympic swan dive,
a clown's leap to crack my bones
on the cold water turned pavement.
I shrink from the bad poetry or it,
the final rapturous incandescence of regret,
body bursting from reason
beyond grammar and skin and the small calumnies,
infinite and small at once.
J. W. Major