One bridge, a hare's leap over the Monongahela—
One, a hawk's low swoop along the Allegheny—
One a Hot Metal truss, one a strung bow,

three Sisters suspended and a terminus at Liberty—
If you count the bridges of this city, you lose count.
This was not the original plan. A city should grow

like a muscle. We flex until the small fibers rip,
bathe in the amino acid's flood. Only a child
tries to staple a tear in the lifting shoulder of God.