There are many reasons — the promise
of water, to offer one example —
but none burns so blood
as the good work of muscles pumping freight
over the earth; as the fact of engine in my knees
and all my lover’s inexplicable flesh
churning wind beside me.
The work of love
becomes its own reason; like the heart’s
relentless feedback loop, which is infinite
until it isn’t; like sweat, being only
(miraculously) itself, and worth it;
like the ocean, having been the ocean
long before we arrived, each wave
newborn and buried at once; like us,
standing breathless at the edge,
astonished by our own lungs.
Franny Choi – “Why We Biked Forty Miles to Narragansett”
@fannychoir
R. Francis Williford 