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On a string of foggy mornings,
the city side of the Ben Franklin Bridge appears
as a jut of place,
the rest collected by the further recesses
of the early, misty hours.


Twirling
up from the moaning streets round Somerset
and Lehigh,
late summer’s vines surge
around the bones of the city,
their flowers offering
something beyond the
purples they show.


These invitations from outside the apparent world
have to arrive within it; every
noticed rift a pane reflecting its circumstance
and a frame for a foreign scene of the mind.


When you look to these instances,
you know that the cathedral of imagined possibility
is quarried from the stranger corners
of what is.