Posted in Poetry

The Bridge Near Genoa

I saw the first photographs on Twitter this morning as I sipped my cappuccino at a local coffee shop. The broken geometry. A soundless astonishing gap where a great section of the bridge had been near Genoa. The rest of the day would be punctuated by new totals of the dead, and in the days ahead, the totals would rise further, and the grief would settle in, a fog of ache that would take years to thin and never fully dissipate.

This piece appears in the Black Coffee Review.

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