Crossing

The concrete barriers
at the edges of the bridge
lost so much of themselves.
Chunks fallen to the river
become gravel and sand
over seasons passed over
by the current.

Patrons dressed for any destination
cannot decide on where to go,
but stroll repeatedly in the same streets
like fixtures of the city square
or shadows cast in all
the bluish neon.

Tattoos pay homage to old regimes
long slaughtered but still surviving
on the pale ribs of a girl
born so long after
they have fallen
all the memories
imagined but alive.