As you creak down six a.m. stairs
you pay attention to each breath:
how it rolls in, spreads like a shawl
of sea water on a sandy beach.
Antique signs hang on your wall
Esso Blue, Aladdin Pink, STP Oil.
Funeral, old-school black bicycles,
side pieces to the real stars of the show
the long and lean, slick and sleek motors
with a hint of summer trees
that gleam and glint in mirrors
set in moon chrome.
The road beyond cuts through the hill
to reveal layers of sand
and keeps on going,
lifts us out of ourselves
closer to the sunlight
the fragments of starlight
closer to ourselves and each other.
Or even farther apart.