Arc

of streaked paint on the street 
of oil in the river
arc of the voices that cry out into the wind
they arc, the blend together.
because an arc is a bridge
it carries one thing to another
the arc of fingertips pressing together
the arc of my toes curling 
an arc is an incomplete circle
just like this world you and I live in
an arc is the shape of all things
not quite full and complete
but       a    l      m     o     s       t  
there