Emerald Twilight

My cycle's orange spine kissed aflame
by the mimosa fringe
of a squall undelivered
from a sky of muslin incipience --

I cannot communicate envy
without upsetting my angular momentum
unwinding the gyroscope
to fall toward cliche or banal absraction.

(The poet's tedious lament
for the exhaustion of novelty
a familiar excuse, I consider,
traversing in essing recursions
the gently inclined side-street's meridian,
levering my wheel into the pavement,
tire humming a swelling note
through each feint across the centerline,
etching my path in the asphalt like a score,
my simple pleasure in the vibration in my hands
matched only by the ecstacy
of leaning into each curling sally.)

Still the sky pinkly dallies,
the breeze churning about my ears
and in the helmet I would remove
but for my insipid prudence.

I pedal gently homeward
where I will not write
of envy or anything else.