"Poetry and hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. All you can do is go where they can find you" – A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh
I run for my youth.
For those tired legs that tread the ground get softer every year.
Ragged and old, they will not free me as they do in these days.
They will begin to heavy, weighted by a stooping brow
A frown that lifts too many thoughts.
I run as fast as a year, through an acrid autumn and a metallic leady winter.
Summer blows a humid sandy wind that pushes the small of my back along.
I see you all through darkness
A small blur of breath and sweat,
The capillaries pop In cold cheeks.
Tourists upon my well worn path. I sneak through
Tall grey pillars of shuffling feet and eyes and arms,
taking small bursts of heat that radiate from packaged bodies.
A cool ranger in a buffalo herd,
I seek to hide beneath this city –
and I am an other to you
as I run past another of you.