[32] Her, Thomas Gresham

I love the way
she flips a leg over her bike
and takes off without me.

She finds a rhythm and sails,
corset straight, high as Mary Poppins,
never looking back to see if I still stalk her.
Her nose sweeps the air like one of her hounds,
ingesting this redolent spring day.
I wonder sometimes if she forgets me—
the breeze whispering in her ears,
the sun kissing her face.

 

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