Gravity's Address

They lie inches above the rushing road,

helmet tipped toward the blur of coming hill.

No engine hums—only surrender to speed.

The city narrows to a single curve,

gravity signing its name in the rider’s breath,

while rubber whispers against the asphalt.

Heat rises in wavering sheets from the asphalt,

tar seams ticking beneath the spine like a measured road.

Each inhale is counted, rationed breath

as houses tilt along the falling hill.

Ahead, the map reduces to one curve,

one narrowing promise of gathering speed.

There is no throttle to tame this speed,

only wheels stitching thin trust to the asphalt.

The body becomes compass through the curve,

a low shadow skimming the painted road.

Street signs flicker past like doubts down the hill,

chased by the hot animal of breath.

Wind steals the edges from every breath,

fills the ears with the ocean-roar of speed.

Gravity presses its thumb down the hill,

harder, harder into the patient asphalt.

Manhole covers bloom like hazards in the road,

each one a coin flipped at the mouth of a curve.

Lean too late and the faith of the curve

splinters; lean true and the lungs find their breath.

Painted lines tremble on the sliding road.

A wobble shivers the grammar of speed,

quick correction sketched across the asphalt,

a private bargain struck mid-hill.

At the foot of the hill, silence waits,

where the final straight abandons the curve.

The rider rises from the humming asphalt,

gathers the tatters of returning breath,

still ringing with the afterimage of speed,

and looks back up the emptied road.

Back up the road, the hill keeps its counsel;

the asphalt remembers each curve of speed.

Breath steadies, but the body still leans into the curve.