The chives at home are flowering in the fridge.
The spot flooding from the thundershower
finds in minutes the depressions around town.
Other surfaces dry already. My lapel
microphone arrived and seems to work.
Playing myself back, riding across Scott,
onto Milton, I think maybe I’m writing 
a Was it for this, like Wordsworth who
at a pivot, a pivot also for poetry,
struck out Was it for this, the near
deictic indicative of nothing yet
established. Wordsworth meant, as
self-chastisement, this approach to poetry,
this effort so far four words in,
or this expense of life and potential to
purchase only sensory impressions
and lay ontology, to forfend more
estimable subjects, but struck out
Was it for this as a start, or postponed it
until he could backfill something of his
dilemma, which in the end to begin
The Prelude went on three hundred lines
so that the this meant all that
revving justification not to take up
anything other than what it’s like to be,
even in the particular, as topic, this.
The sun is out now and makes narrow,
oblong impressions in shadow beneath
my pedals, chains and tires, sending west
the vehicle along its parked trajectory.