l imit

a poem I wrote recently

His feet float against the ground
as the wheels absent-mindedly glide
into the puddle,
wetting the turquoise crown
of the bike,
which is his favorite possession
shipped across the continent
for him 
by his father;
he does not notice this
because a stranger’s figure 
across the street
captures him;
the way the voice rises
when it should fall,
the legs excitedly stumble
after each other,
the stranger’s eyes
angle back and forth
between the silhouettes
of the frigid passerby
and then
aim at his face,
asking of that time
when he received the bike,
and also stared at strangers
with that
unnerving, necessary
lack of distance,
which we might call
the flies that nag the horse
or maybe that is too negative
and one would rather say
the plea that stalls the executioner,
asking again now
for that gaze,
three years ago,
a youth with his name
gliding
in the New England rain
along the banks
of the Charles,
whose soil now contain
most of his life’s tears
mixed in below ground
with the sweat of runners
and whose stones
were the altars
for all his 
earthly unions–
but this is not 
for tonight,
because tonight
he is biking alone
to some far-off frontier,
where the faces
he is joined with
will either
surround him
like flies sucking meat off
the carcass of a man
sitting motionless
on the frame or 
they will induce
the hallucination 
of an imaginary and familiar ally
riding beyond him,
shielding his frame from the wind,
providing the only direction
into this inhuman night;
the draw depending
on the time of day
and how he feels about whether
the world is to be made
or stands heavy and complete behind him.