Sign/Language
       

The bridge is no more than the bent back
of a tall man, a raised eyebrow, one half

of a cupped hand cupping its reflection.
The water below is not blue, is not newly

spit from spring or loudly proud in its rage;
it washes in in whispers. The loudest sound

is the bird slapping with a sudden blow
against the becalmed tide. Nothing needs

to be said. The fog ascends. Somewhere
in all of Galway a single horn sounds a harbor

hum just under the ken of human hearing. The sun
runs over the cock-crowed homes crowded

on the banks of the bay. Nothing needs
to be said. Sounds are drowsy. We speak

the language of our hands. It is morning
for the first time. We say what needs to be said.

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Copyright © 2022 Brian Lutz All rights reserved
from Poetry South
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission