Bikin’ I’m Bikin’
After F.O.
Oh no, I didn’t mean to believe in
the infinite. Now I’m gripping the hand
-lebars like shoulder blades. I’m fucked. The trees,
an unfortunate Thanksgiving table
packed with hot-headed aunts. I’m already
drunk, the wind flossing my tears. What if I
never had another thought? Just flew through
the hours & months? Don’t let the sky be
misunderstood. Rain pulses my eardrums,
I’m swim-biking. All chimneys are champagne
flutes. The gravel roars like a gym teacher
yelling in a cigarette whisper. Fog
for bones I ride in soft halos. Is death
the last forgiveness? Breath, the last witness?
