Run a hand along the arc and wooden edge and a splinter
leaves the grain
sharp, is the pain
marked by a drop of blood.

Pedalling fast two feet, two circular wheels
no hands, straight faced delivery,
no guts, no glory,  youth and temerity,
gravel bits where rubber meets the road.

Trembling hand, no two, follow softly,
the rolling of the satin surface, accepting,
pressing for more, hands directing hands
where to press in to the curve, yearning
becomes burning, so much to this learning
                                                        ­     curves.