After Apollinaire  Brassens
When the bridge of lovers bends
over the oilback river
and we see our own endings
through eyes aching and blearing
when the assault begins
and we’re thrown apart still longing

when the Bridge of Arts trembles
under the streaked sky
when words of the poets tumble
into the shuddering stream
where who knew what joy
would leap after what pain

what flows under the Seine
Mississippi Jordan Tigris
Elbe Amazon Indus Nile

and all the tributaries
who knows where song goes
now and from whom
toward what longings