Lost in the Chop

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 9/7/08

For eight miles across the narrow neck of the bay,
This spidery steel bridge serpentines gracefully
Over waters whose brigtnesses jubilantly toss
Silvers into silver, liquefy countless sky mirrors,
Slip mercurial messages from wave crown
To wave dip, and exhaust every effort that the eyes
Can expend to track their unceasing exuberance.
Even the machines, here, shrink to beetling insignificance,
And while traveling a mile a minute, seem to be moving
Slowly though an expanding envelope of blue space,
Which appears to desire a deviation from the what is
Of the city and its vast and intricate feats of engineering
To establish, if not for the defeated eyesight,
For the exalted vision, a what could be of the imagination.
We humans, subsumed in slippery silvers and mercurial
Swampings are now embraced by something more revolutionary
Than engineering, something that touches areas of living
Outside of the body, and scatters us sweetly through this blue.
If in this traversal, this bridge, these cars, the what is
Of the city take on certain entity-, perhaps even human-like
Characteristics, the steel smiling, as it snakes across
The happy bay, will the spirit, inhabiting this new
Amalgamation, move into the glow palace, where the chamber
Of sapphire awaits it? And having escaped finally
From the realm of mechanical separations, will it
Establish, at least for a moment, a movement for the body,
Which stretches miles and miles into hours and hours, as we dive and leap
From trough to crest, a hundred and a hundred thousand times?
Your treasured, people.”

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