A river too is like a library, Its banks like storied shelves, Its memories written on water,  And in the nearby land. The suspension bridge still bounces like it always did,  And on each end the obelisks  Painted brilliant white, Hold up the spiralled cables,  Steeled taught across the gulf, Across the space between one world  And that which is beyond. It looked old when I first saw it And it is, a dole project schemed for  Depression Era men  Raised up to replace an older bridge That floods had washed away, And before that stepping stones That linked Irishtown to  To the Protestants and services  That flourished on the…