I saw a field mouse fresh-dead on the path,
Blood black in the mud of the bicycle track, his
Eyes, and brain, and paws, and all, were
Curled like a stone in the dirt –
And so curls my brain at the sight of the gore,
My eyeline dissected like mind split by tire,
The sinews like wire, a being unreeled where
Delicate body met bike.
Two explorers, one north, one lawlessly east,
Who meet, and the weaker’s adventuring ends, and
His treasures, his mappings, his soul becomes crust, which
Clings to the spokes of the wheel
And connects them, like ribbon to two planks of wood
Makes a cross, on which hangs the unfinished campaign
Of a mouse, who unwinds from his life and now lives
The indefinite life of the bike.