They say those empty verses left on the register
will come back for you,
but what do they know
the bridge never follows
as you traipse under its arched passageway
they don’t sing about the sparrows once they’ve
flown away for winter.
they don’t tell you when you throw a bottle out to sea
it doesn’t come back – the waves recede gently,
and with the tide’s return
dappled grey bubbles
lap at your toes,
echoes fading crimson sunlight.