Brent Kininmont
Seto Ohashi Bridge
for Sanae
We walked until
late afternoon,
looking for leaps
in imagination,
legs straining against
the trail of hills,
the notebook folded
into my pocket.
Then, out of the air
in this train
coming back,
a line writes itself
between islands,
one thought leading
to another,
about the audacity
of steel, say,
how it carries on
over tankers, trawlers,
that ferry down there –
the one, perhaps,
we had rushed
to catch, but missed
the connection.