Bicycle II

on a bike along the shore — winter in my vest
poems squished with a stone in my heart-nest
air pushing my heart — thickness of paper
only my sight grabs onto things
I remember the details — not links
holding onto a handle with no door

this bike will easily push air drones
squeaking in the wind with its metal bones
shall I go along the shore or along the word?
a wheel bent into ‘an eight’ and spinning pedals
biking through New York — here are the details:
‘New York — Chortkiv’ the connecting road

jotting down some prose of hens that won’t fly
there life brakes between ropes and houses where men die
words there float in Dzhurynka — swimming snakes
a pendulum-heart hides in my chest
snow together with moss in my heart makes a nest

— a green death in a glass eye of a beast -

I got this bike out of an air storage

of my dried screeching memory like an old drawbridge
out of yolks damp on a coastal clay
destroyed nests of chattering turtledoves
a winter that came from the closest roads
bread crumbs in the left pocket I lay

I knew to wear furs and coats in the winter
forks and spoons went under the counter
grandfather put his money in a glass jar
for this we did not need a savings account
in winter geese and ducks added on their feather amount
and hens got their wings trimmed to fly not too far

on a bike along the shore and through the winter
through life a smell of Fedyo’s gasoline linger
through New York that holds a word and lights
riding — as long as your pedals turn
and your heart is wrapped and thrown
was the word, made of tobacco and air that dries

translated by Olga Gerasymiv