This tall bridge
This fall above this crossing
This where the gold and red leave lay,
aside these trees; this little river
and further down, these harvest hues,
to the quite Lantern Lake

This is where he lept.

Now I recall these years and his words
as narrow as this row of poles,
lonely as the road,
this turnpike

This is where he lept.

This is where I wept.

10/16/2006

Author's Note: This was written as I drove on the Little Spokane river road, taking in the deciduous nature of the land. I drove below the Wandermere bridge, a tall and intimidating sight from below, and I remembered Bobby, a friend whod jumped from the bridge, skipping from the spring of his life to the winter. This was for him. I wasnt particularly close to him, but I remember feeling very sad that a man in his late teens was so overlooked, so depressed, so without hope and seeking some person just one person to be close to him. The thing about Bobby is that he wasnt without hope, wasnt without friends, wasnt unattractive, wasnt without reason to live. But, he chose this dramatic fashion to die anyways.

I wasnt originally going to enter this because it is part of a collection I am making that will be a multi-year project that will not be released until it is finished. However, I was so deeply moved that I couldnt not. However, it does stand on its own.

The Little Spokane is a beautiful road in a valley where a small river splits through the landscape. The single most beautiful that Ive ever seen. There is an open gated drive with old style lantern heralding lights that is solemn and is apparently endless (no doubt ending somewhere before it enters the river). I always slow down and look down this road to see if I can ever see anything I think imaginatively if Bobby had ever been down that road or if thats where he wanted to go.

Though I barely knew you I miss you Bobby.

The whole world does.

Posted on 10/16/2006
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