Your life does not exist

in the two hundred pages

of British postmodern funk

you pretended to finish

at two in the morning.

It isn’t curled up

at the bottom of your flask

waiting loyally for you

at the end of every Saturday

when the whiskeys all gone

Your life’s not stuffed

in your jean pocket

or smoldering at the end

of your midnight blue cigarette.

Here, you’re walking now

along a path where

your only protection

is the thin press of green leaves.

You find yourself in a field

grass tips glistening

silver-gold in the late noon sun.

Close your eyes

rock forward to your toe tips

rock back and listen,

feel the curve of your spine

root you into the ground

and the love of no one

looking at you.

Breathe in, breath out.

There it is.


An October afternoon run at Turtle Creek in Beloit, Wisconsin


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