Lopsided breath showing me up,
taking shape away and laughing
and giving lowered eyes; trained.
Look, you damned scenery,
[for mocking me into submission]
the bridge listens only to hope
casually grinding through the sick
spokes of my racer, a bike of champions
I found just last September
by the labyrinth entrance: that hospital wall.
It was left for the next rider to manage,
to cross colourful and abiding bridges
or to rest by the river
paying lots of attention to the trees.
We will cross you now, Bridge, as tourists do without fear
to claim our holiday, riding sideways, to the other bank.
Thank you Walter. Inspiration has had its way with me.