Bedsprings
strewn by the river’s edge, they
crawl like creepy caterpillar carcasses
twisted and torn , rusted by rain,
impressed by lovers, lifeless or long gone
withholding their secrets
A riverside tribute to sleep and sex
a memorial to ecstasy and joy,
the chronicles of lives
spent loving in the shadows.
Aching steel springs might still be of use,
but never in the tall weeds of the river bank,
naked among thistles, remnant
of some wild creation, witness
to the innate miracle: the instinct to be close,
however it blemish and bruise.
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