they make it out of different


on these highways

it rises not only

from the creek below

but from beds of passing semis

and the sun’s quizzical

raised eyebrow

you park precisely in the middle

of the bridge

and sit on a cloud

is it just

that your doubts are thicker

or are they in fact

the kind of bulletproof that


if broken

leaves behind shards

enough to fill novels

with the inky blood they draw