Page 4

Between Spans

We build a bridge of hands and glances,

without a manual, a bridge of green tea and latte,

a bridge of sleep and miles.

Others cross our bridge to feast with us,

dip bread in peppered olive oil,

drink well-oaked wine.

We reach beyond ourselves to link the heights above

a spruce-spiked valley. There, a river counts the days of

rainbow trout and polished stone.

We lever at the bridge. We push its pilons, saw

at its suspension, struggle to regain

our separate footing. We tell no one.

We don't tell ourselves. You are not the span

alone, and I am not. The bridge collapses, and I fall.

I can't say what goes on with you.

We build another bridge. A bridge of cigarettes and

vodka, arched along the pretense that we tried.