Here is a bridge, and I see myself
leaning over it.
The water, the trees, the afternoon light,
the creases between stones, dark and mossy,
the dragonflies, the tiny breeze of their wings.
There’s not a single soul by the riverbank.
The bridge is here and I’m rocking inside it
like a child in a cot, lulled to sleep to grow.
But I am the cross-section between bygone and nothing,
embarrassing the present.
Implied promises are less binding than uttered ones.
The bridge is I myself, and I am the bridge.
What started out as sacrificial
immurement, so that the bridge would hold,
ended up giving me the inflexible freedom
that if I want, I, too, may not collapse,
now that I only have stones to bear.
No one passes this way, yet the bridge still holds on.