At the Galt House Hotel

Southern Review, The, Summer, 2008 by Beth Bretl

It ' s a simple thing--the sun rising today over the Ohio River,

suspended in the steel work of the Second Street Bridge. Disoriented,

I ' m up too early. Water sways, barely, between concrete banks.

Mourning doves perch below on the power grid--epiphanies abide.

Last night on Market Street Orion the Hunter died,

dismembered in those pale facades of Victorian renovation.

Color drains from the sky, concentrating in an apricot sun

riveted between girders. I watch dawn build toward--

but intent is irrelevant when day reaches over wrought

iron to graffiti, over the gray river and a backhoe dug in

under the freeway, rain pooled unevenly around tires.

Midday will sidle past, forgetful of ambition, how it scaffolds.