this thing
doesn’t happen here

a man rolling on two wheels
frantically scanning the dirt below

(as much as such a thing
can be accomplished upon a bycicle)

my hand extended whispering
the promise to bring him home
‘And I will whisper you home
an ill-fated vessel
against the rock lined shore.’
and he came
shaking and nodding
into the sunlight
holding his hand out in return
lingering through a summer sweat
savoring the end of light

the moments before
the darkness came
and gave him
pushing his fanatacism for place
into the spotlight
where only he
might view it


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