The Last Hill

Forty four miles under the wheels
untold elevation
dirt and flecks of sand
the sun’s sharp slant
still burning, evening fire
answered by the flames
in my legs, two matchsticks
against the flinty bite
of grade and wind
the land spinning off to my sides
as the string is stretched—
two riders ahead
offer a minuscule pull
the frame, a pendulum
counting slow time
as the bicycle rocks
a crude lever on two
silver hoops
clicks and squeaks play
over deep breaths
maniac music
as will drives me on
up, almost to the blazing sky
the music slows, stops—
and a new movement, quick tempo
whoosh into shadow and
the promise of gravity
a ride paid in advance