II: The Biker on the Bridge
Over the 400 near Hamilton he stands looking
at the traffic. His sweaty white skin glistens
in the sun. He must have a heart of steel and
breath of sparks to love this flow. June has
dried the short cut grass to sharp
yellow stubs splashed with the green
of persistent weeds. The cars' roar
is constant, the sun unvaried, the light
a glare which melts all vision to a slippery
gleam. Nothing is here that is not intended.
Have cities always been like this?
Did roads in Sung China have
no point without their destinations?
I have walked through parks and
forests where each step had its own
reason to hold me, where cool
greenness was allowed its scope,
where random shoots of new growth
sprang from gnarled bases that seemed
wisdom to the touch, in glades
where the sun's warmth burst forth
tall with light and flowers.
But the biker doesn't care. Will the whiteness
of his skin bum in the sun? His stillness
could be crushed by any stray machine
and barely mar the power of the scene.
What is it that relaxes him? A plan
so purely realized that brightness
washes out all shade, that heat
bums out mere randomness, gives
him, to-day at least, his peace. He has
left in my memory more than I have
from day to day. Praise him.
As I ride in the car I see
the side-mirror can slice reality
and send it tumbling.
I look ahead and see the world speed
by in order, according to our need.
The banditry of chance is banished
and my arrival is well assured.
But the moving mirror casts my present
into threes, the middle distance moving
as it should, while close by, the road-posts
flip along maniacally and the aerial distance
seems to barely move. The biker is the stillness
that flickers for a microsecond
in my mirror, and is gone.
Dear Keats, our modem casement windows resist
the weather better, now that we
are realists of imagination. We are
constantly renovating. Our mastery of travel
is so complete it begs delight, but even so,
we landscape roads, plant parks, sweat
over yards, and debate the scale
of cities with the air
of an affluent race not quite sure
how to compensate. We are not as pure
as thought or love. We are stage magicians
pretending to a wholeness that
is only briefly there.