Only a trace is left.

The long bridge extending over the blue.
Too long, my vertigo says,
even though the sight is breathtaking.
Bodies, like dancers, place themselves
in odd positions, find their tracings on
the planks.
There is another way.
A shorter bridge.
I will take that.
To be spun around by a tall colleague,
is it my brother, Billy, then.
Strange to be spun, one man
after another rises, spins one of us.
A dance ensues.  Patterned like a square dance,
or the elegant minuet of another time.
I am flipping through a book,
comparing one painting and
it’s interpretation. ¬†Should I do this?
Or a still life, the fractured kind I favor?
In the morning and at night, an exercise?
A good practice.
Sarah Palin interrupting as I page through
the book with Todd, talking art.