By Hannah Gorman
I. Revolution
I begin to escape it—
The turn of time no,
But the compulsive counting of spokes
January, February, March cease to order my mind like tire treads marking mud
I begin to turn like the wheel
I tentatively touch the axle
Which is still
In transit, even quiet transit
Even so it moves— maybe forward
II. Motion
A different feeling stirring
I hear the planks creaking, adjusting to the humidity,
Settling in for the long voyage
My breath comes slow and lapping and every hour I sigh once
Like the bell that means the watch is changing
And it is hard to believe my life is twisting into knots
At the magnetism of some foreign body
