Faith

A bridge hangs from the cliff edge,

rough as if knit from wood.

In winter fog, only

its beginning is known.

It hangs: something upholds

it on the other side. Maybe

a cliff, with a lone church

completely frozen over;

through slits of glass, light

so diffuse it fails to speak

of the sun. Even that

is precipitous thinking.

Perhaps the bridge sustains itself

like the arm of a dying man

stretched towards a cure

eluding him on the horizon,

which is just as miraculous. This

I know for certain: in the fog

the sphere of what is seen

moves with the walker.