Motorcycle Diaries

Black-coloured girl
I leaned her over
running
thawing
from the early dawn
along the back-roads
her engine runs
dirt-pure
vibrates soul
into the broken earth
with sounds of revolution
with a quickening pulse
I open her throttle
to listen
to feel
to intuit
the way
she moves me
she suspends me
in the present
like an extra
in a wartime film
I sense the importance
of the little things
the minute details
flashing past our eyes
so often out of sight
I sense her hope
as she raises
her face to the sun
to which we ride on.

 

In memory of Maddog, wherever the wind has taken her… 

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