Ann Tweedy
 

A Cyclist's Peripheral Vision
 
 
 
 
 

a few flies buzzed in and out of the hammered shoulder. the fur had been ripped  out in a large patch like the page of a book. approaching i saw black, a cat's elegant restful shape, the blood in swashes.  passing, i saw traces of white, that the fur was the deep soft  that children long for. as my eyes focused on blood,  a damaged shoulder, i felt the street  tilt up a bit, the slope almost level.  cars roared by two lanes deep  each with more important things to do.

  (c)Ann Tweedy 2003