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