there’s a reckoning in my marrow, i reckon
like the way the night creeps upon my forehead,
i on my bicycle, greeting bumps
with my front tire, breathing to the rhythm
of my clicking chain down a hill
where the wind and i are brothers
barreling toward desire—i am the younger
of us; he holds me still from the traffic
and the low branches which i cannot seek
for any good reason other than nature’s whim
upon my destruction.
under my bones, under my sinking
there are almonds ready to split
and feed the village i whizz by
on my aluminum chariot:
there is no fire here
only the swiftness of a thousand tiny birds
inclining to climb higher and swoop down
to catch their morning worms
as i wish to catch the cracks in Ann Arbor’s walkways.
i outrun the storm—i become the storm
as my legs pump up like lightning
and my breath pants and roars like thunder:
God himself could not make such a fine apocalypse
like how i’ve destroyed the pebbles in my path.
i shall give her a name.