The Fremont Bridge

The Fremont Bridge carries dawn fog
on her curving back. Some mornings
the moon perches atop, a slice of white
like chalky shell peeping through mother-of-pearl
or bone through skin.

She is all skeleton herself, steel girders
and concrete deck disdaining misty veils
or space-time illusions. She speaks solidity
against changeable moon and moving river:
"I will be here always."

The moon never answers
but sometimes laughs.

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