Bicycles

For Camille Nao Katsuragi, the memory of her 1973-2003

In yellow light go riding fast,
            riding with big, unfelt, ungloved hands

    flex fingers
    stretch a span
    aching where
    they are so much here

There's a way where the street lamps aren't,
            after the safety beams

    ghost mist drops
    scratches
    down and about

    weightless
    falling
    path
    white with
    even
    brightness

How the birch shows

    up, up
    winding
    imperfect
    living as
    a placed person

Recall, splinters:
            you were hit on the bike and remade dead

In your paintings
            pieces of things were always disappearing

With phone call, forgot how to be sad

    stutterer

    an ought

    an held breath

A bit after that, a big book shut hard
            with those fingers still in it

In the yellow again

    deep dip of Portland Road
    before the left
    a short hard climb

    up we go
    home
    to shut out
    the flurries
    coming down