There is a piece of bridge in Newark
which stretches up into the sky.

It was, at one time or another, painted
a stale version of sky color. It is immense.

It is impossible to capture by photograph
because of the highways which converge
below its form. I will describe it:
triangular hunks of metal gather

at pivotal screws which might be broken.
Its rectangular shape is drowned
by the sublimity of its height,
but only when seen from the right side

of a New Jersey Transit train leaving Manhattan.
The hunks are interwoven in such a fashion
that you can see through to the Passaic River,

if you like. Otherwise, you can see
the cars racing towards traffic.

Otherwise, you can see the sky.
We are all romantics at heart.

And that is what the triangular hunks
resemble most: hearts
without that curved slit top center.

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