He has dreams of building bridges.
He has dreams of destroying them too,
but those are less frequent.
He may be dreaming now, but he doesn't think about it;
the reality of this dream –
or the dream of this reality –
And so is he.
He plants his fleshed feet into the soft, salty wood
as the iron bridge plants its own into the cold, bay saltwater.
It stretches above him a long ways,
but he gazes into the middle distance,
where the fog begins to leech the definition
from the structure before him.
Perhaps, he briefly considers,
that gradual boundary divides the world from dream things.
Perhaps on the other side of it,
across the bridge,
is what he is really searching for.
But to know,
he would first have to decide
which side of the boundary he is on.
There is no way to know that,
and he doesn't want to think about it,
so he continues to stare into the middle distance.