With flat roads and a tailwind
we were flying, crossing state lines
with sunlight to spare.
Nirvana, Flow, In the Zone.
feet, pedals, rows of wheat.
Thoughts floated out of their ruts,
dispersed like milkweed.
So why did consciousness have to intrude,
snap its fingers, break the spell.
Like a town crier warning of doom, its karmic voice
swept in—for every tailwind, a headwind—
and just like that bliss disappeared. Dread
returned as my amulet, a weapon to wave
like Kuma’s nunchucks hidden
beneath his sleeping bag.