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Our four feet moving around the edge of a firm
circle-we go forward or crazy eight's, making
shapes and howling at what keeps us turning, or straight.
Skilled at riding we pantomime a rose, finger
its helical layers. We say "fuck you gravity"
and slice through its grip by propping it opposite
itself-two paring knives in tandem-two physicists
eating peaches-testing balance. Our bike is long,
ancient and rusted, having two (too fat) vinyl
seats, old rubber wheels and four pedals (with faded
leather holsters) for our feet. No one is alive
who witnessed the color its body once was painted,
yet the chain has been recently greased. We ride across
our bridge (that connects my house to yours)-its riveted
metal sheets bouncing beneath us. There are no gears.
A gear is a wheel with teeth and a wheel
has a fulcrum in its center.
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