At last, another poem. It is likely I would have perished had I gone for another week without writing something. Only a first draft, but what is anything when it is born?



RUNNERS IN THE DARK

nothing remains:
suggestion
of a thin coppery miff
shuddering mothlike

and then?

the closer I
look
the more I
do not find.
where the jolt
of grit and flesh,
and the sweat in the silence?
there was none.
there was
None.

scoop the air
for the glittering dust,
there is only
this imagining of
immaculate chaff.