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…