She sits upon a pile of old bicycle wheels -- bent spoke and flat
rubber tires cracked. She spins How she is upright is mystery
She stays upright in mysterious power. Gears and wires press
into her legs, here and there trailing red welts and stripped skin
Punctured as a tire and tube
Her legs -- soft and strong -- press
into those things extruded & stamped
dead ends of kinetic life
She is a still but singing ring -- the gyre alight
What can be held by broken welds on rusted pipe?
And does whatever orbits like degrade? Only
as her tremendous weight pulls in embrace
And does whatever orbits escape -- annihilate
and free? Only in her light release
Orange pedal reflectors -- a scatter of photons
in the asphault shattered weeds. Her feet
sit solid as Atlas and share his dancing joy
She sits upon a pile of old bicycle wheels
-- spins
