the healwaysrideshisbikethere poem

for brahm

because i have seen you twice

thrown from that primary machine

(once outside a café on laurier once

waving with no point final in mind)

it is natural that i should think

of you as the perfect shape

of motion

(the blurred streaks you trail are fall’s

last leaves in training)

the day you finally fused

(Pan-like with your bicycle)

was like an echo of thirsty

rusted chains singing down

my street at 2 o’clock in the morning