Monday, November 7, 2016

Outrun

Side-by-side at eighty-
five, propelled by four
pistons in a row and two
in a V, our bikes shoot
along a country two-
laner’s curves. 
                          Brothers,
we crest a hill and snap
the throttles open as, from a slope
ahead, blues blaze,
dash toward us and a park
in the gulley between, where we flap 
denim flags at the floundering
patrol plowing dirt
to turn and pursue. 
                                With our flight
speeds past one-
fifteen, we scorch the grade
and swoop away through sweepers,
fling sparks from foot
pegs.  On straightaways trees
look like sticks.  The engines
howl a redline duet,
and escape impends, 
                                   but the black
and white threat—tilted,
tossed, and bounced about
by its bulk—probes the mirrors,
so we brake, slide, power
onto an artery.  The traffic
we blitz blocks the caged
eight. 
           At a roundabout we cleave
chaos through gridlock.                                         
                                        Then we race 
to the woods, where we slow to a crawl,
choose a closer course
among the roots that flow
to a stand of pines. 
                                As the sirens
rush beyond, chrome
exhaust pipes and polished
cooling fins crackle,
glaze ferns with sunlight.

No comments:

Post a Comment