Sometimes the streets' gridding gauze seems just the thing to encase this throb. Lines running out otherwards starch the punctum of me. This tiny slipping site of me. My bicycle is a mystery I've learned to collaborate with. Cars gnash & noxify on all intimate quarters, architecture tips up to blue & sun, pitted avenues in grimy ice-rim gripe against too tattery tyres; and I arrive, hot in the blasty chill, bright-eyed, breathing, leave my machine in the street & enter at the appointed door.