At the end of the old paths

where the light caved

and the bike rolled into ferns

that wrapped its wheels

and called to whispering vines.

Staring from inside the wood

watching the skids on the crossroads

deepen into coal and oil

stripping my shadow down.

Waiting for the string to pull

or the long captured sky to awaken

waiting for the slut's arms

to wrap around my neck

and stay on my shoulders

remaining for the hollow wheel.