Most Syreny

I was fifteen years old when they told me
boy, you’re gone:
The Holy Cross will give you rest, at last.
Say farewell to the days to the nights you spent
here and there on both sides of the riverbank
playing tricks to the passersby, eye to eye
with those who came and those who left town.
I was born in July nineteen eighty-five,
but I felt awkward for the times I grew up in
estranged from my older siblings, alone
clumsy and goofy wearing out of date clothes.
When they put me to sleep it was autumn
and yet I'm still alive.

A Tale of Two Bridges

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