For An Erasure

It was in the days when we walked those many blocks downtown and then across the bridge to the beaches of sand that marked the river as much as the current. In those days we did not count the blocks but walked them and so they were not many, or long, but the way to the river. And the Bridge was huge and colorless and arched itself backwards like a gymnast on the mat to span the river and boats and boathouses and beaches themselves and we did not count those steps or the stairs that went down, made of iron rails with open spaces that leapt up, until we reached the ground at the bottom and walked our heated and sweating bodies until our feet could wriggle themselves into the mud that was washed by the river. Cool and fine and timeless. Because we did not count the blocks or the steps and thought that our houses and the downtown and the river were one thing.

Erasure:

Many blocks downtown
many beaches of sand
the way to the river.
The bridge colorless and arched
made of iron with open spaces
until feet wriggle themselves into the mud
washed by the river.

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