Two Poems
Ryan Starinsky



bike lock

walked outside [of Bat Chapters while the last band was still playing] and her bike was locked to his bike [which was locked next to my bike that didn’t have any bike locked to it] so i left, biked home.



during that second, i could feel my head weighing heavier; the tide, strong and slow like a locomotive approaching another stop. my eyelids open and close, soft like doors, undocumented to all but myself, as if we were meant to remember each moment when we actually realize something we hadn’t known before.

what i see now are things at ease, things that rest and never bleed. these things keep me here staring, a small voice reminding me to do something, like change the clocks, sound of an older man yearning for his untroubled body back, his sharp mind; the way he remembers himself—even still defending wars and friends, telling me he believed in them.

we’re walking on a tangent in a field of flowers wearing the sun’s skin, where everything just looks beautiful. (sure, once a vision of the long haired mailman now crossing the yard, pretending to blend in.) what will just be when we know where we’re going, when we walk with purpose.

i remember when you stood in another room describing us as tumbleweeds. the last words i can remember feeling. you were blunt, you were true and i bought it. after that though, things felt different, the silence was enough to know who you’d been talking about.

having the time to focus on the darkness, hiding that reverence you let brush against your arm, never trying to hold it in your hands. like finding a cartoon birthday card of a kid holding his father’s axe, reminding me of when i was young and untouched, buried in a shoebox. we belong to our minds.