Running
Sun light strains
through unclean glass
a filter to spring light.
My eyes throb to see
the blue sky hang
over a haze of April pollen.
A spasm grips my left hamstring
as I read Thoreau
and Montaign.
My freer self wanders
to the rain spattered portal
and faces west.
I would run until my
breath seized on an inhale
stranded on the beating of my
heart.
I struggle against your words,
try not to hear
them scatter my thoughts,
those thin articulations
that lightly smother me.
The agony I most covet
comes from running
into the storm.
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