Space Poems

XV. Open the book to open the voice.

She comes from across the pier.

Look forward to space success, the voice tells the bicycle.

The bicycle meets the voice at the end of the universe.

A bicycle appears from nowhere.

With barely a peep, Sixo rode it into Henry’s chamber, Where the bats lived.

That door also slams the book shut.

XVI. For practice I took the bicycle, for awhile I practiced nature.

Rode the bicycle to the creek, no Nantucket, but a spindly creek in central Pennsylvania, crochet blanket thrown aside from my place on the basement couch.

Legs still hot from too much of that comfort.

Flicked off the power buttons on everything electric. Stopped. Took the bicycle for space practice over the rocky driveway. Moving forward, the rickety sound of air through spokes, engendering the historic sweep.

Space practice over to the creek. And I stared: The dam and fishermen and egrets.

An old house on the other alter set up high with windows to look at, not through. A heap of mowed grass.

Egrets again. Crawfish and worms.

Flat rocks like platelets. Cantilevered upward, as my hand felt its way through the proper arc and method of throw— rings winnowing out of each one, 2, 3.