The Bridge
By Octavio Paz
Translated by Eliot Weinberger
Between now and now,
between I am and you are,
the word bridge.
Entering it
you enter yourself:
the world connects
and closes like a ring.
From one bank to another,
there is always
a body stretched:
a rainbow.
I'll sleep beneath its arches.
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My Friday was pretty quiet after a morning virtual doctor's appointment to discuss my unexciting labs. The post office finally delivered my stamps, so tomorrow I can mail all my holiday cards not accompanying packages. We had a hawk right near the house distressing both the cats inside and the squirrels outside, and another one, or possibly the same one, a couple of cul-de-sacs down when we took a walk in the chilly late afternoon. We had dinner with my parents, who had early birthday cake for me.
Then we came home and watched Night at the Museum: Kahmunrah Rises Again, which was mostly silly like the movies but nice and short, which left us time to watch Bullet Train. I enjoyed that so much more than I was expecting; it's very violent, but has a very Deadpool-like vibe (and some cast overlap) and is often laugh out loud hilarious, especially when Brad Pitt plays the stupidest man alive. Here are some of the bridges of the Merritt Parkway, no two of which are the same:
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