The poem
He drove at evening through the hushed Vosges. The car radio, glimmering, received broken utterance from the horizon of storms...
'God's honours - our bikes touched: he skidded and came off.' 'Liar.' A timid father's protective bellow. Disfigurement of a village king. 'Just look at the bugger...'
His maroon GT chanted then overtook. He lavished on the high valleys its haleine.