The Cyclists
Out of the immovable bend in the route
through the muting of oak, locust and maple
not as far as the silent river, their chrome, iron and alloys flying low,
away from, and toward a metropolis of gone vineyards
the lost gods’ higher revving eternities race their invisible
each others unaware of the fond separations
of cooling minutes between them, with no hair in the wind
and strangers to the long days and shadowless nights
machines straddled by soft machines that moan for, moan for,
with neither a flag nor farther off, other deities under sail, in sight.
Someone’s train clicks and hums through the apparition
of its own nearer horn then sighs away
while the peepers’ quickened transparencies linger hard—
overcome by, overcoming,
persistent ledger of affections invoking, through the trees, invoked.