The More One Crosses

Bridges, or maybe the more bridges

one crosses, at some point

one learns to look down at the water

or the dry canyon

and ponder the how and why

and who built this bridge

and how was I so lucky

as to cross it,

and should I burn it down

and why did they pick this spot

surely there was a ferry

and maybe before that a row boat

and a guy who operated it,

or if the pass is narrow enough,

a fallen log, a foot bridge

and what if this bridge is a metaphor

what if it isn’t there

and I am not here

crossing it, or even being

one who has crossed

so many bridges

that one begins to think.