To find the world unfamiliar takes a span too long under its spell,
and I—a minim hurdling the crossing—did.
Last century saw cofferdams arising from the brine
and from them piles, bearings, beam, but strangest was that from above
the sky was mirroring the shoals. I had the windows down onto the grey.
I had to have, to keep the screen from clouding up and over.
Sheets of dark, which made the drive underivable, broke
only in their sheeting as a spectrum flaying into unity.
The thesis that the patination
on the bridge’s saddle housing was apportioned by design is flawed.
It is concurrent with the color scheme, to be here able to discern
the goodness of all things in gradients and only so by squinting.
I don’t know if it is enough to merely make it over
