metal frame

now for an outline
this is the turning curve of
the wheels of a bicycle,

their spokes a spider's
web of late-night conversations,
intense eye contact
a quickening heartbeat
and my favorite, the
chest rising and falling.
cool air washing warm skin.

on to the blue metal frame
yolk of handlebars
that holds up nimble,
burning muscle with ease.
admired for the strength
it has to do so

across the circle
to where he walks the bike
like a woman on his arm,
slender and elegant

all he needs yet is a tuxedo
and a clear cocktail;

every one an apparition
to everyone but me

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first an itch and i must wait
the heat is too heavy to wait
it crushes eggs in the mulch,
half-grown bird bodies flowing out

next a shoelace snake
my gaze sliding and wet with humidity
/humility
running past; press it off
discs of his nipples oscillating evenly

third a look of disdain
acquired
opening the door--
instead turns the lock upside-down
face explodes with fluid
dying to escape

we are the white-hot sphere.