It's neither Bifrost nor Monet's,
nor Bridge of Sighs or Golden Gate:

a modest sweep to cure the break,
a makeshift span uniting lands

- not worlds of mortals and divine,
or pastel lilies overarched,

or palace path to prison cells,
or bay to wed Pacific sea.

And yet I'm Dante, Washington,
now in London, Sydney, too,

a goat to tread by bully trolls,
or shall I pass to Khazad-dum?

While shoes do bear me by the breach,
it's wizardry when mind may reach

beyond mere grounds of "here and there"
to compass castles in the air.