The Velocity of Bicycles & Other Things With Chains

Across the universe is sometimes not as far
as across the street. So much depends on the
reason for travel. Sometimes the sign says
stop, but it doesn’t actually mean it.

It isn’t just time and your heart that are flexible.
When you fold a map inward the distance doesn’t
decrease. It kisses itself with sweet precision.
This is the paradox of love.

I am not afraid of this but know: I dislike the promise
of walking alone for so long, even in my best sandals.
I will route a different prayer. Open with an invocation
to the gods of small scents and swift travels, end with

a rifle made of miles. Round and round actually
gets me somewhere in the end. But I am dizzy
already with your mangoed mouth. What’s one more
spin on the planet when we’re folding ourselves
into each other, touching street-to-street?


It’s August, MotherFuckers! 

Image is of the art at Case Study.
Words written at Case Study Coffee. Yep. I’m pretty much paying rent here.
Ears On something delightfully Irish.
Time Taken eight minutes (I got distracted by XKCD. Heh.).
Brain On missing you.


This entry was published on August 10, 2012 at 12:16 pm and is filed under August, Poems, Portland, Self-Portraits. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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