It is the secret language of bridges
that says sleep, do not dream.

Portland, you are the steel of the art of arch,
around a corner, almost an auto wreck, bad radio,
wordless sky.

Wheels working, balding, clawing toward Seattle;
thinking of Brooklyn, Court Street, and the
smell of driving in New York.

Judge a town by the words of the bridges.

Judge me with words that I do not know.

Give me, my hand wrapping up orange cabled steel,
a passage out of the Golden Gate.

Tell me the secret to leaving:
show me roads that do not circle,
freeway onramps leading into the sky,
and let me touch my palm to each bridge as I
pass over it, on my  way forward, so I can
sleep.

Do not dream.