You said you would come as far as the bridge. But I am here at the bridge, which is truly isolated, though it commands a great view. And you are nowhere in sight. It occurs to me now that we have been trying to meet for twenty-eight or forty-one or three years. It seems very vague, doesn’t it, against the idea of human number. Up against the scant idea of number. I can’t remember if I knew you before I was born or before you were. But that’s why there is no year to this or any other hour with you.
But here I am at the bridge and I am reckoning what a bridge is. This one is old. It is wood and it is splintery. Insects have burrowed deep within it as the human soul has burrowed in poetry. I pick at some of the wood and pull it off. Wooden fingernails. I drop them into the creek below.
The sky is violet as you are.
You said you would come as far as the bridge. But you are not here. Did you want me to know this bridge? Is that the real intent?