A blue convertible
slots its way
through flowering plants
down an overgrown forest road.
I see, in twilight, mere instances
normal to the blood:
games, war, art, my limbs
quartered, re-attached.
Makes me wonder, why limbs?
I stand back with perfect memories
not my own.
Choked with flowers
my road bypasses
all improvement.
I’m a basket of toys.
I’m smoothed and shaven
among non-human shapes
in the world where I return
a man
and wonder
at our wily species
Lawrence Bridges
Lawrence Bridges’ poetry has appeared in The New Yorker, Poetry, and The Tampa Review. He has published three volumes of poetry: Horses on Drums (Red Hen Press, 2006), Flip Days (Red Hen Press, 2009), and Brownwood (Tupelo Press, 2016). You can find him on IG: @larrybridges