Saturday, July 20, 2013



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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