THE RIDE
Night has crushed the earth,
And I am held in a carbon fiber hand
By polyester belts secured at three points.
The quarter moon, in all vagueness,
Has come up from the sea and passed
Over the sheer stone cliffs.
I have climbed into this armor,
Wheeled and powered for speed,
To ride shielded beneath the entire weight
Of night and moon. I blip the engine
And downshift, firmly gripping the
Steering wheel on the bank turn,
Struggling against understeer on entry.
In the mingling of lights, staccato stripes
Lengthening with speed, desperate to
Become one single line, are pasted
On the winding, deserted, road.
Have I, like the moon tonight, emerged
From the sea? Waddling on the beach
With the crabs and mudskippers; did I
Change into the body that I have chosen,
Standing detached in darkness screaming
For directions; not knowing what comes
From the night? And will I return to the sea
Or become iron dust caught forever in the
Makeshift winds of the cosmos, unconcerned
That some numerical propositions are unprovable?
But whatever the twilight of the dead
Shall be, for this moment and this ride,
The sedative voice of Patti Page emanating
From the radio is my consciousness, and
There is no conception, no destination,
And no Pythagorean Theorem.
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Want to try your hand at poetry? Email me at poeticiapoems@gmail.com
Featured image credits to Stefan Keller on Pixabay
