Follow the line, Katy, go with the flow;
trace its urgent passage across the bleached
plane of the page. Learn to feel its rhythms.
Mark the arch of the old mans back as he
leans into the wind, driving the bike on,
with heaving breaths, against a wall of air.
Note the gentle arc of the girls arm the
unselfconscious beauty of it as she
flicks a lock of red hair from her forehead.
Follow the ice-carved, rain-scoured rim of the
hills: line without beginning, without end,
fixed between earth and sky, owned by neither.