Specifically,
the girl falling
hard enough from the saddle
to clack her teeth.
Just under my favorite tree.
The man: lean into it.
(He does, the tree.)
Unicycle’s like walking
on your hands. You’re
always in a state of almost
falling. Lean into it
or you land on your ass.
So she sets up again,
white lip knuckle-crook
contact, whole earth
like a pendulum.
I never got the hang
of that either, she says.
Generally,
what passes for summer
in these parts. A golden crown
sparrow hops clear,
watches her wobble
by in broken light like
it was nothing new.
Keith T. Fancher is not a poet. Born in the California redwoods and raised in the Blue Ridge foothills, he holds degrees in computer science and film studies. Nonetheless, his work has appeared in Poetry Northwest, Red Ogre Review, OPEN: Journal, Right Hand Pointing, and elsewhere. He lives in San Francisco.
