Modern Romanticism

It’s an evening’s ride
into the mist,
delivering agony
from where it sparked,
from earlier on
when the tide rose.

In this heat
of an hour’s rush,
I am with the speed
of one startled glacier,
for I’m collapsing
into an echo.

The mountains call back,
the lakes are rippling
to shimmer faces
reflected back,
reminding me that I
should go back.

I keep on
in the same way
I let the wound bleed,
receiving warmth
from a drained vessel.

I was made to float
these surveying thoughts,
this evidence of fractures
beneath bruised skin.

I remain
in isolated recollection
for piece I collected
on this route
I cannot doubt.