To call them ‘my bikes’ is to sell them short;
Reduce them to possessions, mere machines.
They are a part of me as much as thought
Or breathing; limbs and wings, the magic means
By which there is a faster man. I know
Them all just as I know my face and name;
Each has its tales to tell, its scars to show,
A vivid portrait in a diamond frame.
So if you’d understand me, spend some time
Among them, for their lines and curves reveal
My different facets more than any rhyme:
Carbon confessions, poetry in steel.
They are my other selves, my history.
I cannot let them go. For they own me.

2 thoughts on “Fanatical

  1. Nick, I am having trouble keeping up with my commenting for the moment, though I am reading all your sonnets. My daughter and grandson from Wisconsin are in New Mexico visiting, and we have had other visitors. Forgive me.
    I enjoyed this sonnet. Mostly because it seems so absolutely Nick Moore, the song of wheels humming on the road in the music of who he is as fang, claw, wing, and woods catch his eye and soul as the whole of his life gathers up into a symphony of freedom constrained by the need to make a living. Nick Moore is special enough to make his hymn to bikes a hymn to remember.

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