Eoin Rogers
The A-Bridge

Walk at night and you’ll find it
by ear, the seashell echo
of distant running engines.
It arcs above the motorway,
leads from one dark walkway

to another, is pedestrian,
not designed for major transit
or migration, and yet
is known as lure to suicides,
attracted to its fatal height

and four unceasing lanes
that, excepting violent collisions,
will not stop for anyone.
Passing traffic reverberates
within the preventative metal

frame that forms a hollow tube
around the bridge, a cage of sorts
through which, on clearing nights,
the stars might peep
to match the winking city,

the Doppler rush of a loaded truck
ringing the cabled pylons
to their apex, as if they were attuned
to the frequency of suffering and beauty,
the note of passing things.