8:158) chris abraham 07-APR-98 10:17

onto the bike. stiff-framed. steel. slick tires. bar ends. bar cut two inches. running the asphalt. back and forth to work. right pant leg rolled up, bag over my shoulder. this time, shorts, t, movement of my body through traffic. of course, never a helmet. brain bucket. never had any brains in the first place. up 11, left onto mass, then to k and then finding mark and the walk to frank's where the blue plastic kayaks -- matching pair -- lie waiting for our shoulders, to be taken down to the water, placed in with the waveletts slapping the hull, lower down, push away and pull through the smooth glassy ripples away from georgetown and towards the lincoln. tour boats with spot lights. delicate singles like waterbugs. the rower is incidental. a training barge for paddlers in the tradition on hawaii. one paddle two paddle three paddles four to take me home, fourteen on the left fourteen on the right, take me to hawaii-nei, no ka best. and the shoulder don't let me down. and the arms are like steel springs. the back is straight. pulling me strongly. watching the herons pass overhead. the lincoln is lit, the stairway into the potomac brilliant in the indigo of evening sky over rosslyn's affront. brilliant blue clear cold sky, landing lights queued up into the distance: infinity. slap slap, thonk thonk. the water sounds. river water feeling bright and clean streams down my arms from the blades. my blue plastic canoe. mark to my right. head to head. last summer i trailed his strength from health and me the sickly giant, the wheezing zeus. now, the fire rekindled. love? gym? confidence is a part of this, and the beauty and cool air of the spring with the spires of gt, the span of key, the grandeur of memorial. arlington cemetery. rcs bldg. macnews bldg. tour boat, his light scanning the shore, like on the seine. on the seine, there are lovers to spy on, but washington has no lovers, save one and he is awaiting is other.