[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.


search previous next tag category expand menu location phone mail time cart zoom edit close