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A bascule bridge\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Right now, this deadweight under a harvest moon<\/p>\n could pivot, start a roll of upward motion.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Weight and counterweight still echo tidal motion<\/p>\n while stranded stevedores watch reflections on East Float,<\/p>\n <\/p>\n dreaming the ghosts of grain ships. In glass offices men float<\/p>\n new visions, conjure swings in fallen fortunes.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n On roads where even weeds won’t thrive, seesawing fortunes<\/p>\n have come to rest. Every roof and joist is slack.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Wise women strain their eyes. They know slack<\/p>\n water signals turning, though the bridge span opens<\/p>\n <\/p>\n for practice, not for trade. Some days it opens<\/p>\n its industrial mechanics for observers, tourists<\/p>\n <\/p>\n of a sort. At the ferry terminal cafe they serve tourists<\/p>\n mugs of dark tea, feel the west wind chill the shoreline.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Duffel-coated shadows grip railings on the shoreline,<\/p>\n scan ripple-mirrored city lights for signs of change,<\/p>\n <\/p>\n a shiver at the fulcrum. One day they’ll sniff the change<\/p>\n in the salt wind, they say. They’re asking for the moon.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n