crossing bridges

i follow bread crumbs i don't remember
leaving along the way - collect my
scattered thoughts and return them
to the broken container where they belong.
Then, i sift through my sordid secrets,
seal them in a mason jar, and throw
it from the high level with the idea
that one day i will follow them and
be swept away by the North Saskatchewan.

Dejected, i sit at the back of the bus,
riding alone to avoid the vicious whispers
of the elite dreamers at the front. i
watch the pigeons fly as i cross the
low level. The snow is white, but
the flying mud taints its natural
beauty. The quiet sound i imagine
that is the wings of the dirty
birds reminds me that there isn't
anything about you that i don't love.