To the stranger who stole my bike

—the lock cut in two. Now I have to walk

to Our Lady and St. Joseph, through

the sparse needlework of deciduous

branches. It turns out we still need

each other—stranger, maybe

you saw the black and orange chassis

and thought speed, something sleek

to meet the headwinds; maybe warm

meals for the week or a present for someone

you hurt and love; or maybe you’d make

of its handlebars and spokes better use

than I could, as forest floor mycelia

spin carbon, nitrogen from muck—

I was so angry with you. The date I’d planned 

for Saturday fell through, a friend

vanished from my life last week.

The fossil news from Baku, bleak, and suffering

in Lebanon, Sudan, Syria, Palestine.

All things that can be taken, what you thought

was yours, that everything changes hands, and I—

I was late. The mass was almost over,

the voices nearly finished with their singing.

Bread, water, some kind of stolen grace

flashed past me on two wheels in the wind.

December was late. Outside the ash

was watching itself end 

and time ride with the thief.