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The Body's Heated Speech
The rear wheel
is garrulous, grinding
against the stainless
steel roller:
the bike’s inside for the winter,
back tire suspended
in a stationary trainer.
As the spinning
spokes begin to blur,
the taciturn rider
happily disappears
into the rhythm
of legs and breath and
pulse.
His padded black shorts
keep time with the steady
pistoning of quads and
calves,
his jersey darkens
with the skin’s
wet text, the body’s
heated speech so persuasive
he returns again and again.
It’s the thrill of being
the engine
that drives the machine,
it’s the will to last long
like the grinding
steel-gray winter seems.
Rising from the saddle
to stand and hammer the
pedals
full force, the rider dreams
an approach to Sestrière’s
summit, dreams
a morning
for the first crocus to crescent
the spring-soaked soil.
© 2005 by Brian Powers |