Standing on a wet street in town, I looked up and saw
—then, as suddenly losing it,
had to say only thought I saw—a bridge!
High over the river
it was an unexpected span between sides,
between times, spiky and bright against the nearly
night. But of course it was only a construct
engineered of gray cabled clouds, an intricate
network of vapors as up in the air
as I am of late. And strung from those atmospherics,
ropes of twilight hung like Spanish moss and orchids,
a skyward seaweed both host and guest,
and I thought I saw myself, seeing and not seeing,
feeding on air and rain and a little debris,
a kind of lichen or fern harmlessly attached
to something that isn’t there.