Suddenly,
you are the Vitruvian Man, mid-air
flying over the handlebars
twenty-five miles an hour
winding narrow paved Flourentine road
certain disaster
just as the man Davinci convinced
to fly in his crazy craft,
from that wine and olive-grove hillside
you will be a crumble wreck of a corpse
but what should have been
bones and blood
instead two quarter sized burns
above the knees
road rash, a torn fingernail
a bike bent and broken
the culprit, a camera
clattering down the concrete
somehow, strangely, you are standing
on your feet
a Vitruvian man
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