Sometimes in a dream, I cross the bridge.
I meet others inside the bridge,
having come up from the Bowery for a new life.
For sure the world thinks we are ghosts
or if not ghosts, misfits.
But in crossing from one side
of the bridge to the other,
we see him moving among the deer
and the broken rows of birch.
He often takes a shortcut
walking the waters before ice out
his hands reaching deep into his pockets
to give us bread or fruit,
and we, eager for the Good News,
listen as he speaks,
the woods suddenly still.
The deer edging close
To lick his wounds.