I dreamt of limp arms,
hundreds of them
hanging over the side of a bridge.
Every time a ship sailed underneath
the fingernails from hundreds of dead bodies
scraped the wood of the top deck
slowing it down ever so slightly
as if they had something to say.
Thousands of fingers pointing downward
counting thousands of ripples in the river.
The riverbed holding old fishing hooks,
ink from old letters that were never read,
the blank paper that no longer holds meaning
Screws, rotting wood, anchors holding nothing in place
a lens from a pair of old glasses belonging to an old pair of eyes that no longer see
pieces of life jackets that failed to save lives
broken tea cups where fish now lay their eggs
wedding rings and broken promises
bones from fingers pointing the blame at everyone but themselves
of watches full of water and stopped time
And the hands of the dead bodies will forever point downward
Like the hands of the broken watches