Skip to content →

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

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.