In pieces now, slowly dissected, a little less there each time
I drive across the bay from east to west.
At night, a silhouette of what once was, the shadow of a beast,
that grey metal testament of man’s faith in man,
stretching from crane to crane.
The replacement, a white lighted beacon of hope
suspended on the precipice of disillusion;
Rust already eating away at the unseen foundational cracks,
as man is no longer capable of such impossible feats.
And yet we witness the reversal of construction,
a more intentional disassembly than Loma Prieta.
There is a metaphor here about the limitations of belief,
another about impermanence.
The myth is being forgotten.
We are owed an explanation that will never come,
because Man, like God, won’t make good on his promises.