Andres Amitai Wilson – “Ghost Bike”

 

haunts
my every morning,
garbed in the off-
white hymns,
in the traffic-light
rhythms.

Its front tire is flat;
its rear, floating.
Both rest in the
indefinite, in the spaces,
the serrated links
between locks,
the messy threads
of place and nowhere.

Ghost Bike withers
petals, autumns
songs to rusty manacles,
to mangled spokes,
yet new flowers
appear weekly—as if left by storks
or bees who clothe her
in buzzing rainbows
or winds
of orchards
again.

Some days
I think to offer
my own bouquet—
vigorous, erect—
a moveable garden
of aphids, on a
valley morning
when all dirges
are sung
and I can imagine
my own wheels
going flat.

But today’s the traffic
and it spins as a wheel,
revolving unnoticed
into never
again.


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