The Art of Motorcycle Accidents

I once believed that it’s a shame to fall

rounding the curves at top speed in the dust,

lying in the shoulder, knees a crust

of blood and grit, upchucking phlegm and gall.

Afraid to scrape the road or spill a cup

or two of gas, my engine out of gear,

I balanced on my handlebars the fear

of having no one there to pick me up.

No more.  To fall is better than to soar

and there is art in falling as in love.

Unfastened in midair, downside above,

I right myself, ride higher than before.

As in love—or everything—the pain

is falling and not getting up again.