And to that, there must have been
a this and distance.
 
And to the tent, a sky
and a verity of singularities.
 
And to the monochromatic screen,
the black hole of a vision, an audience.
 
And in that state of waiting, to you
and that impossibility of knowing,
 
There was the knowledge that at the end,
there were places we had to be
 
And places we had to get off the ground
to get there.
 
The line between where I was and am  
just a thin fecundity of the subconscious.
 
And that night, in the shadow of
your receding silhouette,
 
I pedalled across
the starlit bridge,
 
Across riveted threads
of cobblestoned shophouses,
 
Across hillways and Gothic Chapel, to watch
people in their merry-making pull water and ocean
 
From the river to earth, believing they could
diminish the event horizon[1].
 
O moon, do you convulse in the mirror at men
and women who play at minor gods?
 
I pedalled through the silence, through
the basket on the wall, till at the end of it, you'd arrived,
 
Arrived at the end of momentum.
 
And there was some iteration of us,
in a matter of time,
 
And I pedalled so hard till you were so far gone,
skeleton burnt from flesh, and I was there back at the beginning,
 
Alone in it.