Fifty feet above, the steady whir
of traffic and the slur of rubber
on asphalt sounds like a river.
On calm nights I can look down
at Lake Union and see the lights
of the city reflected in dark water.
No stars. Heaven here is I-5,
north to Canada, south to Mexico,
but below, as in an empty cathedral
filled with broken bottles,
random car parts, and old newspapers,
I lie here and breathe gas.
Some day these pillars will fall,
but listening to a river tonight
I'll sleep well under the overpass.
From "Bird's Nest In Your Hair" by Brian Jobe
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 10:13 PM UTC
Fifty feet above, the steady whir
of traffic and the slur of rubber
on asphalt sounds like a river.
On calm nights I can look down
at Lake Union and see the lights
of the city reflected in dark water.
No stars. Heaven here is I-5,
north to Canada, south to Mexico,
but below, as in an empty cathedral
filled with broken bottles,
random car parts, and old newspapers,
I lie here and breathe gas.
Some day these pillars will fall,
but listening to a river tonight
I'll sleep well under the overpass.
From "Bird's Nest In Your Hair" by Brian Jobe
