On my way to work, as I step across the tightrope
of the bridge, below me on the freeway
passes a cement mixer with the words Knife River
slowly spinning along its barrel.
The pavement bakes, the windshields flash.
Gleaming silver fishes rush past in the current.
The sluggish whirlpool turns. Shining scalpels
of sunlight slice through the chain link fence.
I'm caught in a net of shadows, waiting to be hauled
onto the deck where I will flop until my breath is spent.
My head drops; the last thing I see, scratched in the concrete
with a stick or finger, long ago when it was wet,
two names, the only barrier between them
the whetted harpoon head of a heart.