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Cyclist

Jan Horner
From:   Recent Mistakes. Turnstone, 1988.


Every night the bicycle;
rides over mountains to me
Every night the man who rides;
turns away over the Arctic Circle
He talks slower, softer
but the wheels spin on
I reach up to hold him
he sees only forgotten sheets
on the line
He sees my white picket fence
the sour milk, the dirty laundry
Even my sleeping son
cannot charm the bicyclist

As I dream
blooms at his window
lean out transmitting desire
Above his bed
the parasol turning
its spokes attempts
to sroke his inner tubes
Picasso Blue clown
in a grey kitchen closet
the red enamel windows
signal blood in the bath
As I dream
his fine hair grows on my breasts
thick and black
and dishes in my dark cupboards
glow in frenzy
to iron his shirts

When he comes
the deer will be eating our crabapples
When he comes
the walnut tree will bear fruit
candles will flare up
doors open
and messages will seep
through the walls
And when he comes
my paper bags will hold
cut flowers in water
If it is morning when I wake
my bicycle will be fixed
If it is evening
I will become the bicycle



Jan Horner's works copyright © to the author.


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