Cycling into a straight
four miles along a field of silage
red and yellow herringboned,
like a breech-baby fighting
There is in the wicker pod beneath
spinning in his little hands
so it will take the Sabbath sky.
much bigger than the body, prevails.
over me and hovers.
over the black, the flywheel
blurring in the tire rounds.
When I left my head to the whisper,
beneath the belly into which the pilot
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