She can't ride yet
but when she does...
A lot of the streets and the people we meet
seem to turn away but so be it
Even shop ghosts
But we buttered them anyway like toast
Don't dream about your own life
It's likely to be fiction
Because when she learns to ride
it will be in my direction
And every family's parents, daughters and sons
and every squashed baby bird that kneels
will be known by the sun
never to be buried but to be healed
Two wheels across town perhaps
but always toward me
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