Carla Occaso



Under the Bridge


Air, this sky.

Blackbirds fly

Somewhere to hide the bowl

From coming snow

It comes from my soul.


The bowl, this heart

Breaking apart

From pleasures it once knew

Finding snow

Hiding from you


The glass, this cage

Contains rage

Against comfort I once knew

See snow?

It comes from my soul.



Pumpkins rot on the sill

Air glows orange; crisp and still

Tomatoes: too many to eatů

Who is sitting in my seat?

My seat is cold

My eyes grow old

Not sure I can see winter through.


This year I hardly see

But I hear that sweet marauding bee


Flying from flower to flower

Getting ready for the freeze

Freer by the hour;

free and sweet

Sweet and cold

All honey comes from my soul


Leftovers smell in the fridge

Water freezes the well

The millenium comes; we prepare our hell

But, maybe the world is over

At last

The things that mattered long passed

Under the weather-worn bridge.


July 21, 1999

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