Here, a wilderness of wild turkeys
that I pigeon in,

shade on the wing & lily-of-the-valleying.
Here, gray birches

lying down with the silversmithing wind.
Clue: Here, what blooms

blooms scentlessly, fiercely curled
against the smithereening

spring. Ears ringing, I belly up
to my queendom

of nimblewill & bicycle chains, grease
slicking my hem

the color of gravel with no brook
to gravel in.

Belled bicycle listing, I play the game
where the object

is to keep falling. My knees sing.
Here, birds nest

in the curved road. I confess: I doubted
the presence of

the road & the breathing of the stones until
I became intimate

with them. I try not to think of any him.
Clue: Here, in

the preening field. The bicycle may well
be a wilder animal.

Cecily Parks’s poetry collection Field Folly Snow was a finalist for the Norma Farber First Book Award and the Shenandoah/Glasgow Prize for Emerging Writers. She lives in New York City.