nibbling at the hothouse horizon
creeping into the day-moon’s shade
a vinyl disc warps over my head
as I pedal harder through bricolage to reach
the inevitable endless end
bendless bend
(picture if you can)
then realise I am not alone
…
we are all on bicycles
standard as icicles
or cloudy crescents of
processed algae on a fork
…
immortal day, ale-pure, found in the faraway,
like grist sprouting under a mill-stone,
revive us, sweating all a-lemony
for a timeless lifetime of eternal work
…
