Douglas S. Jones

The spider living in the bike seat has finally spun its own spokes through the wheels. I have seen it crawl upside down, armored black and jigging back to the hollow frame, have felt the stickiness break as the tire pulls free the stitches of last night’s sewing. We’ve ridden this bike together for a week now, two legs in gyre by daylight, and at night, the eight converting gears into looms, handle bars into sails. This is how it is to be part of a cycle— to be always in motion, and to be always woven to something else.