You'll find yourself who? by Lawrence Bridges Who's there? You'll find yourself early one morning asked by your handlers to analyze, using trigonometry, the nature of the structure where we all find ourselves by daylight. The load-bearing armatures are chrome, a nice environment to enrapture with thought, sweet from a distance, overpowering all trees. Since I'm given to climbing, I'm adored by other primates who grip, ascend, and observe the flat world of forests, somewhere a river, somewhere an ocean. First feeling, hunger, second, sex, third, curiosity about the far-a-way, and forth, fear. I rise from the coma of age to meaningful fruit, bodies, wonder, and terror, huddling with loved ones on the avenues batching the brew of natural fermentation, waking up clear- headed to greet the morning, under- slept with dream's strangers still in distress. I'm going back to sleep next to my wife to see if the world there is better of if I am, inside the chrome planet that won't stop rotating into troubled dawns.
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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.
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