158

I rode my bicycle through
            The back fields slowly
                        And smoked a cigarette
And watched the small birds
            Gather and lift as I
                        Ran them up from their
Ground under the stems
            Of wheat. They would start
                        Up at intervals and fall
Back into it further from me
            Like a tide was moving them.
                        Cinders fell from my smoke
Into the dark regimented
            Crop and sailed down
                        As their fuel ended and the
Air sucked them out of it.
            The cigarette was good.
                        It was an old bicycle
That had belonged to Eliot.
            The chain would catch
                        And the brakes were worn
And there was some rust,
            But it was a good bicycle.
                        I felt a little dizzy and
Stars were showing as it
            Came down and the sparks
                        Fell into the ranked wheat.
I could not tell my speed
            Or direction of if I was in motion
                        Because the stars were still.