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sidecar
A man with what is nearly a bike and one leg longer than the other pedaling down the street, it would be impossible for him to have come up this way and so I imagine that he is always right here, in gravity’s embrace tunneling down through headwinds.
The wind is not rushing because he has long since forgotten what it felt to be still. Or rather I can not imagine it for him and am too slow to reach him. Singing.
He is close to the songbirds. Or rather I think he must be for I do not understand the words.
Tire rubbed raw so that metal bits spark the pavement and a woman bends over to light her cigarette in its arc. Or rather I would like to have done so.
That they sold this life at the store on the corner, and that it did not last so long.
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