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 who�d jumped from the bridge, skipping from the spring of his life to the winter. This was for him. I wasn�t 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 wasn�t without hope, wasn�t without friends, wasn�t unattractive, wasn�t without reason to live. But, he chose this dramatic fashion to die anyways.

I wasn�t 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 couldn�t not. However, it does stand on it�s own.

The Little Spokane is a beautiful road in a valley where a small river splits through the landscape. The single most beautiful that I�ve 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 that�s 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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