Love is a Window

BIKE RIDE

I follow We sway Your lead north

Searching for the book you lost

it fell off in the high 30's

or low 40's

up the west side

zigzagging through traffic

the wrong way on 11th Avenue

I discover instead of paper and text

your lips

& hips & eyes & hair & legs all tingling

salty

in a deserted July

Sunday

in bright sun, and the trucker

who angle-parks his load to look at us

makes me see how lucky I am

to have found you and not some soft cover

blowing every which way in the roadway of desire

on 51st street

a block from the river

you, me, reluctant to leave,

holding hands,

happy thumbs,

happy