July/August 2010 issue | See all poetryFrom the
Here, a wilderness of wild turkeys
that I pigeon in,
shade on the wing & lily-of-the-valleying.
Here, gray birches
lying down with the silversmithing wind.
Clue: Here, what blooms
blooms scentlessly, fiercely curled
against the smithereening
spring. Ears ringing, I belly up
to my queendom
of nimblewill & bicycle chains, grease
slicking my hem
the color of gravel with no brook
to gravel in.
Belled bicycle listing, I play the game
where the object
is to keep falling. My knees sing.
Here, birds nest
in the curved road. I confess: I doubted
the presence of
the road & the breathing of the stones until
I became intimate
with them. I try not to think of any him.
Clue: Here, in
the preening field. The bicycle may well
be a wilder animal.