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Terminal Island Bridge


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
into uncertainty
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