Postcard 190

 

She sits upon a pile of old bicycle wheels -- bent spoke and flat

rubber tires cracked. She spins How she is upright is mystery

 

She stays upright in mysterious power. Gears and wires press

into her legs, here and there trailing red welts and stripped skin

 

Punctured as a tire and tube

 Her legs -- soft and strong -- press

 

into those things extruded & stamped

dead ends of kinetic life

She is a still but singing ring -- the gyre alight

What can be held by broken welds on rusted pipe?

 

And does whatever orbits like degrade? Only

as her tremendous weight pulls in embrace

 

And does whatever orbits escape -- annihilate

and free? Only in her light release

 

Orange pedal reflectors -- a scatter of photons

in the asphault shattered weeds. Her feet

 

sit solid as Atlas and share his dancing joy

She sits upon a pile of old bicycle wheels

                                                -- spins