Pass the caution tape, its yellow gleam across
two poles, step into the rectangle of wet concrete.

Sink, and you'll accept the gray matter, how
gravel makes way, takes hold of an ankle.

Dully alkaline, baseless, such earth wants more,
so withstand the itch, the chill, submit your calf.

To leave a mark is less about the ground taking
the vestige of the miles you've traveled alone

than the hour you spend on a tub's edge scrubbing
your shoe, the pebbles in a swirl clogging the drain.

Perhaps it's not naming a bridge but the short walk
above water,
                     the crossing-over, the gust's unease

in a rosebush nearby—quiet,
                                           consider the view,
see the grasshopper dart, the web quiver—