poem 27365

27365

My slowest machine speeds me
more gently down that precious

path. All of my bicycle
muscles give way to the day

within. A will: still as the
breath’s diminishing inner

tussle. A hill: sure as the
shift gear’s clicking numbers. My

heart clocks its own course, locks its
beat to an unsteady tick,

stays the frame down uneven
ground, in any wind. My head

stows the combination from
view, sends it to you, if you

know where to look, you can ride
my mount: I’ll join you on foot.