she who was a girl, opaque on a bicycle,
entranced by every language around her,
ran rubber down the the center
of Main Street's great wound,
occasionally brandishing her tongue
to attack a fleet of grey moths
under the yawn of a convenience store's
half-eaten electric light, bronze & blue
overlooking itself in the mirror
of a wet paved place, her tire
crawling up my left shin, over
knee-cap with a fleshy jump,
to stretch a bruise into my thigh,
stitch wishbone kisses
between my ribcages.
let her ride on her seat like a snail
who was a girl without my knowing,
who was a reach past every odorless moment
toward a force-field of fragrant gardens,
where broken television antennas lie still
beneath moving ferns in choirlike multitude.
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