← v14n2, Fall 2015
Poetry · Volume 14, Number 2

Motorcycles

Bare chrome, fast grin, hot pipes

remind me I have skin. Piss off,

a cyclops with a golden eye—

I have a rampage caught between my knees.

When black road opens its throat,

when the engine kicks and kisses,

when I’m nothing but an articulate machine—

drag bars, shaft drive, V-twin. Darling,

if I idle like a tidal wave outside your door,

come out, unwind me from my leather.