of spring and drop cinder grit for us randonneurs to kick up
to force us to find wider radii
as waves make quick work of a night shore we too
succumb to an unconscious repetition of cadence
of passage
the rush of cut air the soft click of the drivetrain these silent legs
as pistons of an antiquated steam engine all is lost in the deafening wind
in the music for cyclists
and this music is free
free of label of contract of culture divide to anyone who would
choose the union of metal grease leather rubber cork
and legs as the truer horsepower
