details, like mosaics, decades old
around eleven, the adrenaline slow
fall from my red Christmas bike,
ripping skin on loose gravel,
catching the pain across my palms
facts of a sort
followed by conjecture
the sky was winter grey—
I was heading home (from where)
hurriedly (was I late, for what
or just the thrill of speed
or both— fear and joy dancing
together like flames)
perhaps, perhaps
what-ifs’ multitudes unravel
with time and causal doubts
as perhaps twist and spin into now’s
singular, tight, and irretrievable knot
I tell myself I know and knew
the bits of broken glass cohere
but I don’t anymore than I did
I fell, I bled, I must
have made it home
for I am here
(July 20, 2026)
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