The tick tick tick of the bike on the potholed street,
scatter of gravel, twigs among shadows, glass
from a shattered whatever it was and flap
at the cyclist’s eye a burst of pigeon, rings
and sunlit feathers and tick tick tick the bird
stays with him, both their heads in flight it seems,
wind in his ears he’s almost young again,
flying along till the pigeon forks out of sight
and he sees before the homeless camp the fence
full of vines and light, the auto body shop
with its sprayed declaration YO MO SAPIENS.
Watch out for the STOP where traffic comes out of nowhere,
the hidden lane, that was a lovely face
at the wheel, her dark eyes—did they look his way?
YO MO SAPIENS indeed. YO MO—MO—
who knows what, speeding along in a warm chinook.
MO wind in his eyes, MO tears passing the camp,
the smoke of their fire the sweat pressed out of the trees
the bike path now no traffic now, the day
MO SAPIENS, MO she was lovely, she
brown-eyed and floating with her windows down.