For Eric Swangstu  
 
Salt hisses past, the throttle pulling wide,
your engine pitched past comfort into heat,
the needle buried, flats erased to white,
markers peeling off beneath your feet.
In chrome, a house shifts backward—
windows flashing color as they slide:
cobalt burning wrong, blues thinned and blurred.
Your jacket grips. The tank scars at the thigh.
The wind scrapes down to nerve and won’t give in.
Your hands stay closed. He taught them so.
The dark that named you never learned to sleep.
All forward breaks, the steel lets go.
What named you once now cuts its channel deep.
The wheels slip. The forward pull is gone—
a bounding deer—pure chest—detonates the sun.