Some bridges, like cats, arch up from a long
wary sleep and plant their paws shore to shore,
before easing into their spines. And dreams
are like this, one thing lapped on another:
cats, bridges, freight over freight, pylon
to pylon as all at once a bridge, unmoored
from the architecture of bone, leans
on its haunches and bounds over the river.
Some dreams are like this: the span of a life,
a spoonful of gray green water; a cable
with which to bind those two long nights
split by a current where the freights gamble
with the tides and muscle through the tolls,
to dock at a wharf where madness is sold.
Published: Third Wednesday, Spring 2023