aloft on these wings

aloft on these wings we are
movement itself, we are air, we are breath,
we are the beginning of breath, an inhale,
and even before the inhale, we are
the idea of inhaling, inklings of atoms
bending forward, pulsing, then shimmying closer,
and fusing. but even before that, aloft
on wings we are memory, an ancient twinning,
prehistoric, fundamental, artless
and so beautiful in our artlessness.
before that, too, we are stars, nascent light,
borne out of a dark chaos, a small jolt
of electricity catching fire. we are the first
luminescence, and before that, we are its
opposite, we are shadows, we are everlasting night,
we are permanence and wholeness and silence,
we are the first big thing, and then, before that,
we are the first small thing, we are microscopic,
we are two, then one, then nothing at all.

my love, aloft on these wings,
I don't know, exactly,
where it is I'm flying to,
but that's not the point.

Instead, I'm curving, like an apostrophe,
back toward earth, back to the beginning,
back inside the sentence of myself,
tracing the first word, cupping my hand
around the first syllable, opening my heart
to that first precious, infinitesimal letter.

which possible light

away from the center of the terrible heat
i, too, can forget.

instead, i cozy up to the pliant cotton of my couch,
the brocade of a pillow,
the fur of my yellow dog
and meditate on my luck, the good weather,
the mail, the novel i am reading which
eases me to sleep each night.

but then, this:
a swarm of crosses
deep in the heart of the desert -
plain, brutal epiphany
and i am made instantly
three thousand times smaller,
a fraction of a fraction,
a small, burning atom that cannot fathom
how to move, or which possible light
to swim toward.

working the muscle

from a distance, the road
might not have looked like much -
a stretch of something, maybe,
a span between mountains,
a length resembling a lost highway,
or dead-end, even, in a certain light,
but no matter - she'd brought her bike.

trusty thing, equipped with sturdy wheels,
a not-too-hard seat, lights, a horn she attached herself.

the days stretched out easy, lithe, quietly fertile,
smooth as glass, and she pedaled that way,
and riding became something of a meditation,
a mantra of knees and thighs, the mnemonic
device of a pedal and gears and lungs and heart
and the delicious taste of pleasure in her mouth,
the subtlest wind at her cheeks, a hot sun
at her back and barely the need
for brakes.

and riding, she found herself oddly still,
needing no encouragement nor reward,
no direction nor speed
no horizon nor hope except
the only thing required:
the simple act of working the muscle,
keeping her balance, watching the road.