Sonnet with Two Bridges

I prefer the ugly one, blue and inhospitable. My theory 
has to do with looking, the gaps in the chain-link fence
that we paused in front of, drunk, to stare at a passing 
garbage boat, a ferry, and cars on the more famous bridge, 
which could be seen west of where we stood. Soft edges, 
wooden panels. I stuck my face through the wire. You placed 
your hand on my waist. And we stood like that together,
quiet and unmoving, the night before you left for Philadelphia, 
a landlocked city with one good river. One cracked bell.
So I guess it all comes down to water, and also elevation—
how sometimes the height of things is more honest
than the architecture. The grid and not the myth of it. 
The broken fence and not the plaque. How many dawns, 
said Crane, waiting under the pier, refusing to name his lover.