While Live Streaming

by Lawrence Bridges

The world has no subject

so why shouldn't I speak

of shells?

 

The rise of sun and moon confuse me

with pattern.

 

Worms.

If all of us are not worms

say so now

to those who steer past pebbles

and incidental

clumps adhering to earth

some with sustenance

hidden in delicious rot

and earth bacon.

 

In Sri Lanka,

somebody just pointed out

that the world is mostly mud.

 

Thanks for the re-tweet and the like.

 

Softly,

the topics move across the map

like swamp flowers

with the wind

bending like human waves

at the ballpark.

 

Such messy swaths of dry

paint with primitive figures in a child's hand.

That art I like

(it’s not self-conscious),

but what isn't (self-conscious)

except the cycles (and

the like)?

 

Here, what matters doesn’t matter

and how do we build a city

without rebellion, without a king over there?

 

Leaders,

humbled to suits,

portray realms

as unvanquished.

 

We are all slaves to stop signs.

About the Author

Lawrence Bridges' poetry has appeared in The New Yorker, Poetry, and The Tampa Review. He has published three volumes of poetry: Horses on Drums, Flip Days, and Brownwood with Red Hen Press.