Through the Black Forest (On the Treasure Trail)

Lost cyclists from far cities roll
over me, amateurs astride
my thighs’ alleyway closing eyes,
trying to arrive slowly, all

come at once, covering in lines
my blank body, drowning inside
with sighs thick milk runs through, angels
spoil avenues licked just in time,

spilling out responsorials,
rolling off burning tongues gods tied
like rubber bands around men’s minds,
to stump and condemn them for all

of mortal time, or until tides
turn like logs in a jam beside
river’s end, plants pulled down for all
to see—witnesses who abide

physics, not some old mystic’s scrawled
laws; active and vapid, they ride
lemniscate laps around the Rhine,
peeling sunset’s skim from its bowl,

glowing up sunken rhythms light
takes as toll for flight into night,
lordships and mistresses who fall
like forgotten stars out of sight,

and mercurial, each bike still
spirals silver-quick to my dry
spell; braking to beat themselves while
off in the distance, the park fills

up with voyeur gaze, downward eyes
waiting for my riders to file
in and lay hard their apostle
hands on my sin while yelling, ‘Drive!’