Crossing
(yes)

A dark man exhales,
Riding off a tiny high, his head
Wrapped in cotton,
Before the breeze blows it away.

The fog is so thick, so cold,
My face is numb.
Reality is a stone's throw away,
Ending in the white water-vapor,
As if

These people are here, all these people.
Collected to collect the image of
A new place.
And they are the spectacle,
Not the girders, the concrete, the cables.
Not the water, the rocks, the fog.
Not the gap
Through which the little girl fell.