They’re setting off explosions
in the morning. Waking
to repeated pops,
I wonder where I am
and what those distant bangs
foretell—or vice versa.
Then it dawns on me.
They must be coming from
the bridge site. Down by the
pylons,
construction workers wrest
the old one down and raise
the latest engineering
testament to getting
to another place
on time. The river though,
which this old interstate
crosses without a token
given to a ferryman,
keeps on streaming on,
always in the mountains,
always at the sea,
always straight through me.
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