by Lesyn Panasiuk
Translated from the Ukrainian by Katie Farris & Ilya Kaminsky
Old bicycles stubbornly pull sticks into their wheels,
pull everything into their mouths
like infants still discovering the world.
They often break their own teeth and jaws,
scraping their black, rubber lips
which bleed air.
They tell too many stories.
They no longer remember where
they meant to wheel us.
They pray to the roads,
endlessly kissing the asphalt like it was
a vast self-portrait
of God,
begging
and begging to stop --
yet, like a vast
self-portrait of God, they cannot stop.
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