I ride the relapse out, literally, on the motorcycle.
The night streaked downtown, the flint edge of cold to penetrate,
Five bad days break on the sixth like a wave.
I download an old album, choke the bike high for the cold,
Pound it up
Keyed up, banking straight into the sun.
It is music with its own fabric, it can wash over you if you let it.
It is what my son Henry calls monster music.
The light shatters, fragments through woods yet to come back.
Guitars rending, feedback from the bike, its music, it’s humming
In my chest. When the woods taper and end at Huguenot,
It is my emergence. It is joy.
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