Dearest, note how these two are alike: This harpsicord pavane by Purcell And the racer's twelve-speed bike.

The machinery of grace is always simple. This chrome trapezoid, one wheel connected To another of concentric gears, Which Ptolemy dreamt of and Schwinn perfected, Is gone. The cyclist, not the cycle, steers. And in the playing, Purcell's chords are played away.

So this talk, or touch if I were there, Should work its effortless gadgetry of love, Like Dante's heaven, and melt into the air.

If it doesn't, of course, I've fallen. So much is chance, So much agility, desire, and feverish care, As bicyclists and harpsicordists prove

Who only by moving can balance, Only by balancing move.

Note: Putting this poem here because of its strong resonance with Theodore Rotheke's closing lines from his sestina, "The Waking":