The Floating Bridge
Beyond the floating bridge another world awaits. There the master dances for the concubine. The fly watches the monk buzz around the room. The emperor settles into the straw to sleep. I travel there often. But I cannot honestly say I know the way. The bridge appears at unlikely times . . . When I'm walking down the street. When I'm eating breakfast with a child. Once in the middle of a funeral I joined hands with the deceased and walked across. Sometimes the bridge is small and inconspicuous. Like a poem. Or the flight of a bird. Often I don’t realize I'm on it until I get to the other side. Once I made the mistake of closing my eyes halfway across and letting my lover spin me around. Now I've lost track of which side I’m standing on.