The one-hundredth mile: I picture myself knees wide in a bubble of silence, incantatory hours under each mile

This morning bullfrogs are first sounds remembered; muddied along Lake Talquin—a sleeping bag I distracted myself with myself

Half night of camping, weekend of folding the future into something not remembered; night of downwind whispers

We know return is tantamount to giving in; that treachery sleeps in the pulpit and poll.

I want to remember the motorcycle in front of me, you hunched against the road—how I come up and fall back, and fall back

Your old bike gives more than anything I buy or will before we perish, warranties forgotten like smiles of gas station attendants

I want to record the empty parts; the silence. I want photographs between the words.

Some way to capture laughter and hang the tape on the wind like a soundtrack for the motor

A self-fashioned tool that gives more than it takes.

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