O L D R A I L W A Y B R I D G E

5 1 ° 2 6 ’ 4 5 ” N , 2 ° 3 6 ’ 1 8 ” W

rail

Hide behind this poem
at the point when the sun glances
off the flyover and cracks
like a sour egg, running
to fill every pocket of asphalt
and river with a light so thick
you mistake it for a gift
wrapped in ribbons of copper
and oily light. Opening the poem,
you see trees breaking themselves
effortlessly, endlessly
into branches.