<szporluk's "under the bridge"> 2004-08-04.11:48 a.m. Under the Bridge Larissa Szporluk You never know when somebody will stick a little knife in your heart and walk away-- and the handle that smells of his hand vibrates by your breast as he ducks through the trees and minutes later blows like a shirt pin across the frozen lake. And you're all wet, and he's in love with what he's done. And because of the cut, the distance of your life pours out, and because of the clouds like fat that surround you, you don't hear for a long time the tom-tom beating in the sky letting shadows too heavy to be birds, and yelling with a message to forgive him like the others did their father under that bridge there where ropes still linger in remembrance of their necks, where a flute in its case lies cold-- forgive him. Say his name. It was only power that he had to have, and look what the one thrust gave him. back /& forth /& frosting names are often sad