It’s too late 

For an essentially old woman like me 
Given that 
I am generally bad at riding bikes 
In the dark 
I swerve even more. Panic is taunting me  
It’s faster 
Than me, so it trots along. But then the moon 
Swallows it
Full and orange it glows over the soy crops 
Sometimes I 
Wonder why I don’t stay up late more often 
Suddenly 
I’m in a bush. Unfortunate, while it is 
I am calm 
I am not swerving, and I smell like jasmine