The inclinometer is tied to him
literally hangs around his neck
we walk up and down in the woods
the sun gets lower and lower
behind the trees
he raises it to his eye
It’s hard to keep steady
while measuring the grade of the earth
cold feet and fingers
while making a bike trail
in west Des Moines, Iowa,
crossing frozen creeks
the tree branches start to look like
upside-down spiders in the sky
webs spiking into gray clouds
stars brighter away from the city
we march up and down
talk about how fast a cyclist will
descend
climb
The inclinometer wavers
trembles
as we look through it
line it up with our mouth or nose
to see how the ground rises and falls
.5 here or a -8 there.
Our faces blend with the lines and dots
till new faces are made
