Bridge above the gorge,
lights of tightwadded Tacoma.

A Chaff blown state,
sunlight yellow, wheat field yellow.

Everything gritty is also smooth:
riverbank, bedsoil, rescue mission grit.

Like polished stone or sanded wood,
the view from any part of town
takes in the polish of lyrical land.

The bridge spans the gorge,
the trail leads to the bank like perdition.

Fifteen campfires pinpoint the bank,
even the stars lack shelter in Tacoma.

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