If I shut my eyes very tight 
I can recreate the bike, 
your oldblackboneshaker. 
Its basket hung up front, 
the paint long dulled and lustreless 
the pedals hanging rust encrusted, 
a wire back carrier tied with twine. 

If I concentrate even harder, 
I can see you mount it, 
shedding years as you push 
the pedals, wind streaming 
past your ears, your hair loosed, 
your skirt, a banner unfurled. 

When you were firmly earthbound 
again and not observing. 
I used to sneak a ride, 
wanting to transform myself, 
to push against the wind and through it, 
ringing the bell loudly all the while