I Look Up From My Book of Poetry

and we’re on the Tillikum bridge
train rocking slow and stately under us
and downtown spread out blazing
against a dry December night

lights doubled on the dark water below.
I’m on the wrong side now,
the west side. To get home, I’ll have to cross
the river again toward the Rose Quarter,

the sports arena whose lighted dome
I can see in the distance. By then
I’ll be on a bus, looking back toward
the glowing towers of the Tillikum

reflected in the same river.
It seems like a long way home in the dark.
But what a privilege, what a gift
to cross and recross, on this dark night.

this river of light.

Available! High-Voltage Lines, Knocking from Inside