He rides the lines, forearms flexed,
balancing the wheel above the ground.
I hold my breath feeling each small shift
of weight, his feet pumping the pedals

just enough to keep the wheel spinning in air,
clipping the day into quick-flip cartoons.
He rides the length of the complex,
seated, arms stretched, tireless.

Something in his smile says he knows
the secrets behind our cheap metal doors—
a father's suicide, the girl who deals coke
by the pool--as if he can rock his forks

and right the sun-fired windows.
His body spools apartments behind him
cutting a narrow profile across speed bumps,
diminishing down the Complex road.

We long for these small acts of perfection,
things undone, still in motion, like you
riding the one earthbound wheel,
gravity curling the spokes to pull you down.