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  • or end? It seems obvious
    for a cyclist in the home stretch
    of a century ride to recognize
    his complicated relationship to time,
    that the ability to take a grade in twelve
    is a product of hours of prep, training
    on either side of this race, that day.
    Heaven help the artist who counts.
    Love wears no cycling shorts
    resentfully washed during lunch
    hour & peeled over its naked ass, has
    no economic stronghold, bears neither
    debt nor memory of lack. How
    could one possibly forget
    the satiety of something so full
    of itself—or, forgetting,
    what myth could convince
    even a child it will come back
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