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Almost as Good as What We Destroyed

Feigned outrage, real idiocy—how do we delete

what’s onscreen when someone put a foot

through it last night. The perks

of taxis emerge as the bus goes over a canal,

then a cliff; if it helps to grip my hand

as we plummet, you can.

A book with no table of contents, no index—

you want to trust that waiting will

reward you with less waiting,

but I wouldn’t. Any vehicle is terrifying when

it goes too fast on unfamiliar roads, and by

terrifying I mean beautiful,

a fluke of white and blue light. I want to address

a Vespa in the second person, want it to

respond, but it’s done with me.

Not to be ignored, I invent an incline so steep

that when a truck ascends, it flips

over backwards—the same

sensation rips me out of sleep—in other

words, far too beautiful to bear.

A passenger recurs, always

in a different seat, and won’t adhere

to my schedule, but I am too

weak to ask whether

we’re running ahead or behind. Who would

know. When I melt this way I relish

the cool air forcing

me back inside my skin. Look around, there

are fewer possibilities, so let’s call

what we do pedestrian, scrub

every other description. We’ve taken wing.

I offered you my hand before—

maybe you should take it.

from They Don’t Kill You Because They’re Hungry, They Kill You Because They’re FullFind it in the library

Copyright © 2014 Mark Bibbins
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Copper Canyon Press.

Published in Mark Bibbins Poems

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