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WHERE THE POEMS COME FROM NOW THAT I RIDE A MOTORCYCLE
by Grace Butcher
They don't come from the sun
     so much anymore--
     or not the sun alone
     but from the glint of sun
     on chrome.
And not so much
     from the dark roads
     as from the unrolling
     of the roads with a sound
     like wind.
And sometimes now from
     the way the quiet stars
     blow back behind me
     and I have no thought at all
     till later.
I notice how everything is changing:
nothing comes from where it used to.
     I make decisions at crossroads
     I have never seen before.
     So does the wind.
The directions we are heading
     have not yet even been named.
From Before I Go Out on the Road, Cleveland State Poetry Center, 1979. Second printing l992.
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�1998 Grace Butcher
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