It happens, of course, that you get a flat, that you will have to
get by with one that’s too high: You cannot reach the pedals
and there are cars and crosswalks and rights of way: There’s
asphalt and strange inklings in your hands, accidents hanging
in the wind, like seconds painted over with a total, total hush:
There’s a scraping and asphalt, asphalt the bike rams against,
asphalt you plough your way through, small stones you hide
under your skin, and glass, and there’s no way around it, or
getting down to it: There’s only asphalt on top of asphalt,
there’s a city on top of asphalt, and there’s nothing underneath
it but earth: There’s earth and asphalt and a city: There’s a city
on top of the earth: There’s a city on a city, there’s asphalt on
top of asphalt, earth above earth, and there’s no way getting
down to it, or around it, that’s how it’s always been: As when
you ride a bike, too high up, and you can’t reach the pedals.