1

Barges pass against the cold sky
above the roads on which I cycle,
from Rotterdam to Delft,
to Amsterdam and Beek, almost
silent but for my ticking odometer.
Each revolution marking space,
time, vector.

Each morning I pluck a new town
from the hostel guide and plan my route.
Mail goes only out.

2

The land bulges with sea-level canals.
Distant barges creep by above my head.
Then bridges fling me up and over
to land, ticking softly,
in the next great green bowl.

Last year, my father’s heart coughed
to get his attention.
Next year, it will stop.
This month I coast the Low Countries.

3

Sturdy Dutch bicycles,
antiques built for the long haul,
toil toward the compact towns,
Lelystad and Leeuwarden,
Zutphen and Venlo.

I pass them all.
Baskets full of cheese and cabbage,
cargo bikes hauling hammers and chickens,
riders stare at my backpack,
my saddlebags,
my swift, light ten-speed.

Belgians dreaming of Eddy Merckx
will stare at the weight I carry,
my slow, heavy ten-speed.

Near Utrecht, Fodor tells me,
bored soldiers built Austerlitz,
a pyramid for Napoleon.
In the soft autumn rain,
I snap a picture of
the neat Dutch hill.

I glimpse the water at Arnhem,
take the bridge the Germans held in ’44.
Ahead lies Maastricht, where
d’Artagnan died in battle. Beyond that
I will be in Belgium.

4

The map, folded in its handlebar case,
guides my ride. I track progress
by the odometer clicks,
by signs and landmarks,
sinking into the map as I cannot
into the territory.

Fodor and Michelin shape
the journey and bind me to the roads.
I have no schedule
and no time for detours.

My mind is full of love and battles.
In New York, Renee
reads my letters carefully
then throws them away.
I ship Delftware home, and wooden shoes,
but carry only undeveloped images.

My days slide past
dotted with apple cake and churches,
museums and postcards.

5

South and east, the land rises into Flanders.
The road carries me through a tidy
Dutch forest, toward the Maas.
Lost in knowing where I am,
I look across to shining water.
A man sits quietly, puffing a pipe,
smoke drifting astern,
and I glide up from behind,
pumping easily,
gaining, inch by inch, on the barge.

I count my miles, new totals every night.
How far tomorrow? What can I see
if I get there before it closes?

The bargee looks up at me. A brown mass
at his feet resolves into an incurious mastiff.
One hand on the helm, the man waves a greeting
with his pipe. I have learned this much:
“Goede dag!” across the field and water.
He returns, “Bonjour!”

6

Barges carry slow freight,
know where they are going,
arrive when they arrive.

Soon enough, I will need to climb.
I pace the man and dog and barge.
The road diverges from the canal, we wave again,
and I pedal toward the hills to come.

“October 1979” was published in the 2013 edition of The Labletter.