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How a Bridge Is Built

                                    Michael T. Young

The Devil envied God his power;
I envy his attention to detail
down to the mitochondria
by whose cellular fires I warm myself.

To be aware of every speck of dust—
that is to truly live—be a master of minutiae,
every marginal memory, like that day in winter
wind stirred day-old snow into the air,
flakes glinting like tinsel
                                           and I knew
I missed something, that part of me was missing,
off constructing a bridge between that confetti

and the day before when I passed a bar
where some red balloons capped in snow
sank under the weight, like minds heavy with insights,

how, at first, I had no idea what they were,
that they looked like something out of a children’s tale,
a radioactive fungus where a giant mantis sat
drunk with wisdom, spoke a language that connected it all,

and I could almost understand.

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