Untitled (Bicycle)

And then got on my bicycle through the tunnel in the snow

roiling endeavor traversing sloped city caressed by wings

in search of delay

And the small increments troubling air

and the cool pale sky

wilderness errand cauldron of hope

lost in the fickle mirror on the windowsill bird

casting about for seed body unencumbered

soul flight a vocabulary of

simple delusion

everything on hold but for the ditch.

Time worn through mere fabric or scrim girl on her bike uphill

boy under the covers the mouth of the dream open

through snow a wilderness errand recalling

the nameless door and the cold handlebars and the trek

upstream and the contagion of fear

body still on its journey

silent mud in the aftermath of rain.

And the perpetual alliance of love grown from seed

the far field’s contagion inhaled across boundaries—

Virgil is on the floor. Euripides on the floor.

No one could direct me to the room even as I was wearing

thin blue plastic gloves out of which a bug

crawled and sat on my finger as if it were a rock.

Like a god, I crushed it.