16 September 2020

Postcard 190


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

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