What is secret is slow in moving
The old bicycles stand in basements
deep in dank darkness
and in the attic: covered by a thin coating
of dry light dust. Cycles with wheels stiffened
in the final turn taken before being deserted,
abandoned to mummifying or dissolving
in wet rust: The secret, the slow decomposition.
The spokes, bulging out from the hub, invisible
in swift motion at top speed. At nights: the dynamo
thumbed over onto the tough rubber, the irregular light
flickering for the road.
A fine tracery of thin spider’s web covers the spokes,
the rubber swollen out in dark scars under the thin
gluey strands: Small dry wings are stuck fast,
it is difficult to catch sight of the black insect.
I sit with a photograph of my father. He has just got off
the bicycle which he props up close to his body:
His fingers grip the handlebars.