And Splash

March 23, 2011

Like the hands of crowds
where limousines cruise
and their windows absorb
the brunt of common touch
golden stalks of grass brush
against my calves. That is,
I’m riding my bike on dirt
down this path and each
burr attaching to denim
thighs and waist becomes
another badge.
Wind tells me
to stop receiving
rewards and I follow
its lead, crashing
gears and handle-bars
into bushes—the only
vast wilderness amid
the sprawl, traffic sedated—

Constant trickles click off
the seconds with brown
algae in full sight through
chrome spokes, mica
mirroring overcast
skies. I pick other stones
from the arch of my shoe,
pretending a sojourn
from fertile crescent
to fertile crescent,
exiled but
entering a trance
where a cicada-killer
might show his crude
face offer an
obscene silence
extend his arms into
a make-shift Jordan
and splash. And splash.

Scott Kinder-Pyle


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