on some nights —

too fast and pressed
against a hard curl
in the road, one shoulder
rising, the other falling off,
eye-fused to the guardrail,
numb-stomached and knuckled,
I lose myself in the rope
of friction vs. momentum.

and too, I loose myself
from the strap that urges
me to plunge more
swiftly into the city below
like the breathless stoop
of a snub-nosed falcon
heaped upon its prey.

such auspices, conceived
in the fury of flight, beg —
whether to become the bird or
a flaccid road clutched
by slow descent.

Image: Taneli Lahtinen on Unsplash

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