Tuesday, July 19, 2005
The overpass is made of wood, it gleams silvery in some transpositional lights, but it is withering from the outside in. People traverse it and their feet get caught in the rot. It is a sinking bridge, a sad and beautiful monstrosity that makes crossing easier and harder simultaneously. I wish I could fix you, bridge, with a newfangled spray or coating but you resist this. I will wait and see. A new invention may be within my clawing grasp. No sinking, no troubles, no sadness, no worms. Just reinforcement and goodness in the chiming free-form woods. Good luck.