We exit the toll booth|
into gray-wool nothingness, as fog
slow dances behind us
tattering the highway,
draping the old prison walls
in disillusioned grace.
Tires thump to the bridge's rhythm:
our bodies sway in unison
while our thoughts exist outside of time...
on the radio the same blues
we've riffed on before,
till a foghorn drowns out romance.
Light shivers: the bridge jumps off
like a double suicide –
yet here we go again, in a dark sedan
rippling the velvet abyss for
one more crossing.
© 1998 by Beth Stevens