Daily,
Anna Tole
rides by me.
sitting up straight;
pedaling awkwardly.
she looks down:
maybe at the dirt
or a stone,
but it’s most probably
something i cant see
with glass eyes
alone.
she sees things…
like a seed taking root
or a nest where foxes
chew rocks
in constant costly pursuit
of that elusive sharper tooth
clouded. constant. clarity.
she looks closer
to see grains of sand
much darker
than her pre-disposed
pre-dawn
darkness
the kind
that attaches itself
tangled up behind her
she might as well be
tying soda cans
to tap out a
telegraph message
s.o.s…s.o.s…s.o.s…