Bike Ride

Long ago we had my bike
on the road past the T.B. wing,
crossing the land on clay ribs.
The shadows of weeds tickled.
The bicycle spokes were twisting webs
that day, breaking,
dumping the morning leaves.
In a haze without maps, on creaking stones,
hands sticky on the handles,
we were lost.

But we broke from the road,
tongues of leaves cracking.
We shared the loss.

The sun sewed the wind to the fences,
stitching as we passed by. We blinked
on our good break, were marrow out of bone,
the late rings of the woods thrown
to us; trepidation, counterweights,
grass in the spokes of the bicycling,
and that one summer,
still for us to remember,
the smell of tar among the trees.