Two selections from The Bridge, a book-length poem

born again into postcard blue

of Thursday afternoon

and the city looks unglamorous

its powerplants and bridges

diminished by the river

who quietly digests the piers

then shuffles herself into cloud

famous people are reaching

the edges of cities

like this one

famous people who are just

as indifferent as we are

transforming ourselves

as we pass by each other

playing our differences

one by one

such separateness

in the catalytic crowd

even as I line

the folds of my brain

and the rooms of my heart

with the sad blue

and gray of the city

she sorts herself

without me

tall outrageous city

to whom I have offered

my coffer of services

blessedly naïve

born blazing again

into postcard blue

spring’s balloon

collapses laughing

over all the buildings

the bridge parses the sky

liberty a far-away idea

dwarfed by commercial buildings

who hunker at the city’s lower end

in their various darks

a woman says I like him / I like him

repeating until the phrase has stuck

when the tunnel pulls us back

to our regular drama

with halogenic light

and the blue at 6:55

is dark enough to parse the cars

with sparks and spark plugs

plunging through the

periwinklest air

and the faint aroma of brass

and the city lays there open faced