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Bridge
across my father's face. Now, on the river bank, in late summer haze and its contentions of sewer, skunk, and barbecue, I watch the evening current of birds over the town, forking past the dome, a gilded boulder in their stream. Farther north, the halves of the new highway bridge reach toward each other like an elderly couple across the space between twin beds. This fall I'll drive where I couldn't. A road through the air above the river where there wasn't one before.
In Posse:
Potentially, might be ...
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