Run

The lake you run around
is a man-made safe zone,
and you know it,

but the birds could give
a flying fuck.

Finches cling to reeds,
flicker their tail feathers,
calling yellow
to their mates
who are more or less
yellow than themselves.

Blackbirds mind their business,
and you mind yours,
paving your sweet escape
through trees and sweat.

Running is the combination
of calves and chords;
a cacophony of body
calling to atmosphere.

You huff harder to bridge
brief lapses of oxygen.
Your joints tight like bolts
loosen, and your muscles
slip into familiar ways.

Suddenly, everything fits,
everything flows.

This movement is warmer than
you remember, and the G-spot
on your brain begins to hum.

You find the smell of your work
intoxicating.

A gnat cloud circles overhead.
It consumes you, and one
flies into your tear duct
where it dies.

Night is the next cloud
to consume you.
You know the route
through the forest
by coolness and wet bark,
but you’ve never seen
it past dark.

It could be your secret,
you shiver.

Then all the little hairs
on your arm dance to the tune
of your run.

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