I remember my bridge- sitting in evenings , hair blown, smells indistinct, kids playing on the sand below, buffaloes on way home. There was another bridge but I was not there above the water and the speedy cars passing like nobody’s business but it was like that.
Bridges existed and one had better be there. The beautiful bridge did exist and so did she. A beautiful woman, her hair blown, her body turned a figment, but the mind continued in sheaves of random prose , tattered verse .There are bridges of existing, hers and mine.