1.

The estuary's deepened by centuries of concern.

Massive and slow, lowing like cattle, the ships draw our eyes

down the channel. What a silly shallop a word is—

but the names they give these enormous container ships!

The Henry Hudson Bridge: a boat named for a bridge,

named for a man. We looked him up. A time of trade over nation,

passages. Belief in progress. Simple forward movement.

Ships: Discovery, Hopewell, Halve Maen.

Then the bridge, beautiful as any bridge, straddling the hollow

between the eyes and the gut—which loves such shapes.

2.

In sepia, the half-constructed bridge, two parts reaching.

We know the pieces fit. And the ship—we check where in the

world she is.

A yellow isosceles gives the last known position. Between reports

and sightings we suspend a structure trusted to span the breach

—the thought is latticed, girded by gaps.

The Half Moon, a pub in

this same town, or close enough, an adjoining village.

We can't tell between the truly connected and contiguous.

We see the half and believe… in time—the fullness of it.

We see the moon and it gives us the sun, a memory of

beergardenness.

The Russians probably have a name for this.