I am the spiral, cannot stop—pitch forward,
thin arms at my back, holding like a cord.
Wichita dissolving at the edges, burning white—
my shoulder takes the bar, my wrist the lean,
the headlamp eating everything in sight,
the blacktop folding into what’s between.
I read the fractures pushing asphalt,
augur’s weight dropped into Ash, the core
of earth pressing upward through the fault,
my boots the only knowledge of the floor—
exhaust unthreading back along return,
the blue Suzuki smoking from the throat,
the acid running everything I burn,
the root still sounding out its lowest note.