Evenings, I sharpen pencils, find blank paper,

you pack camera, lenses, film.

We capture orange and pink skies

throwing light, long shadows

on landscapes and faces.

We forget small things: exposures, words.

We're traveling from sharp terrains of memory

to where only distant mountains are recalled.

We live now, setting down our world

before the first stroke or heart attack;

no cancer or disease yet to make us dried, frail.

We are as walkers on snow that may give way

unexpectedly, no sound to say it's yielding, no goodbyes.

MURRAY BRIDGE, SOUTH AUSTRALIA, 1867

   for Bill Stacy

They built the bridge in England,

labeled girders,

each pin and hole

like flaps and slots of paper dolls,

undid them all

and shipped each part Down Under

to be fitted to its mate:

thousands of couplings,

lovers from past lives

reunited.

The bridge stands there still,

in tension like a good argument,

in compression like making love afterward.