.	bridge by Ingrid Swanberg   with its burden of white blossoms the black water turns where you are written forever in the silt,   it toils in its long drift to nothing, wearing your silence across the dead hour            you nowhere survived   the round moon burns full in your absence, silver, molten, its coin refused            no crossing here   in a little while I'll go down to the ditch at the end of summer, to the street lit against anguish,   only let me rest here now upon everything I've forgotten, the black water below