An urban setting. A bike ride.

Someone drives off a pontoon into the river, drowns.

You talk to him about what you saw,

was it an accident?

You talk about the ease of the word fate.

You talk about the situation at home, the love for a man,

the send-off that’s been prepared in spite of property, i.e. money, kid and goods.

You can already remember tomorrow’s photograph in the Harbour News,

saturated, enlarged beyond recognition.

You ask your son what he makes of it.

Is it male or female, he asks, a bin bag,

a small bathtub, a lilo, a shop-window dummy,

he thinks it could be all kinds of things, but what is it, he wants to know.

You cherish the intimacy

You point at what looks like a steering wheel, fingers, wrist, rope.

You talk about how death can take you by surprise.

You talk about your son’s messiness,

now he’s gone and lost his watch,

on Thursday it was his leather jacket,

as if you don’t care about your things, you say.

He smiles, strokes your cheek,

offering scope for a religious perspective.

You speak about the desire for subjugation.

You want a ride without a driver, fully automatic.

You say you’re not sure who’s actually pulling the strings.

You raise the issue of his non-stop smoking,

that you’re just making it up as you go along, that you wish it’d end differently.

A successful attempt requires a certain level of expertise, you say

the willingness to go far