As if in a picture frame, he is mounted .

The cyclist must explore

 

by movement, defining limits

to become the picture within

as an image imagined

sensed by a sort of freedom.

The oils must be built up

smearing his face

and every moving part

in fortune's light.

 

He becomes trapped

in the world that must hang

forever where the

valleys meet the hills,

but first the toiling,

and clouds in their mockery

are added in huge sweeps

and with his struggle the paint sets

as he rides into an

unimpeachable sunset.