Exploding is not slow like burning
a bridge takes some time.

A self of secrets like a clutch of eggs,
out of reach, protected so they tell you
your bleeding animal instincts.

Crossing to within shouting distance,
not close enough to whisper,
lighting little fires one by one,
where we would step used for kindling.

Until the bridge is gone.
There are no intimate enemies if we are alone.
(An insane assumption.)

One of us is on the continent presumably.
Either you leave me on a prison island of safety,
or I leave you on one.
But no. We putter.
Hugging the opposite shores,
hoping for the best over there where you are
over here where I am.
Not bothering to shout the obvious question into the wind.