we crack a beer pedal
in line broken by potholes
and branches hold both arms out
straight, a mast on concrete
seas swaying slightly rocked by rubber
waves that cycle and cycle spokes
like oars rush forward:
a royal fleet
land, grounded
we dismount
clamber over faces
of ten-foot saints
toes in Paul-sides
fingers grasp Joseph-necks
can’t reach
grab my hand and pull
I fear getting down
You fear missing the dawn
we crack a beer
backs against granite
heads cartwheeling
eyes focusing, unfocusing
can’t feel my nose
kings of the predawn
lording over tops of trees
and sleeping bums
curled like heaps
of dead leaves
and dirty socks
we crack a beer
wait for the spinning to stop
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