the cyclistPicture the road as that guest at the party you spot from across the room,
despite the collision of chip bowls and furniture and beer bottles nearly tipping
and the growing humidity between bodies and the froth of conversation.
How that proximity and enclosure blurs attention, resolve slipping
in favor of that warm hum, a certain comfort coined from the simple fact
of staying close to the center of so much noise. And then.
An almost missable urging, a sly glance that would have been deflected
by the crowd were in not for its sweet certainty. After this, it doesn't matter when
the movement begins, only that it does, the body pulled from the seduction of a chair
into an edgeless and immeasurable romance that begins with this instruction: Let's get out of here.