At six I had a yellow bike,
its pedals thick with wooden blocks,
so that my rubber soles could reach.
I rode up to the empty school,
then racing downhill, missed the turn
and pitched into a vacant lot,
tangling legs, spokes, and rocks.
I visit that place now and then,
see little slope, little danger in
a crash. There’s no mnemonic scar.
But facts can’t curb the quickening
of that leap into air....