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In Hope
September 14, 2015
The wheels of my bicycle frame an interval of speed.
The air is cold and it makes the asphalt look cold.
Let the asphalt receive me.
The interval is pitched.
The hill is pitched.
The air is cold.
The asphalt.
Cold.
Let the asphalt receive me.
If I ran aground, my chest would land first.
My arms would be at a pitch to the Earth.
My legs would be at a pitch to the Earth.
The air would be cold.
The ground.
Cold.
Asphalt.
Cold.
Let the asphalt receive me.
© Anonymous
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