He tells me he is lonely, his lover has been murdered

That was you? That was us. Motioning into distance

his eyes away from the toilet block, dismounting his
bike, keeping his helmet on; It was in all the papers. 

He’s handling the bars, thumbing the levers, clicking

through gears, the park – the men and the scythe-like
moon harvesting light – the hospital and the road

ahead running, running, till the chain finally catches –

They almost got away with it, he brakes. We appealed 
reaching through the framework, snapping each silver

vertebrae back into place, grafting metal link to metal

plate, the wheel turning now in its own cyclic coma.