Photo by Ryan McGuire
The bicycle is the true vehicle
of poets. Think
of all it allows you to do:
As you ride it you can rise
and dip your head into the bell of the wind,
brake in a Trojan army of wet leaves,
balance on tilted wheels
under the strict eyes
of walk-don't-walk
like tightrope-walking spectacles
above the abyss of an empty circus ring.
The bicycle brings with it knowledge of headwind
and a horizon hunted in vain
on the way to your lover
in front of whose house you chain it,
as guardian, aluminum virgin, handcuff,
where it can safely let wild vines
grow over it, should you
for the duration of the night,
a lifetime,
not come out anymore.
