Shirt wadded & tossed,

my throat implodes. Stars.

These shoes are easy now;

what comes later: midday

& muscles burned.

The present is so hard

to lock into. The mind

doesn’t live there.

Speed comes from palms

collecting palms. From legs

that went all summer

along the lake when my eyes

were thick with color,

the day in my head.

Someone was looking for keys

but we hadn’t seen any. Water

released the shore, rock

& sand; our arms cast

as antelope & apostrophe.

What owns the body;

what owns the movement

that body makes. Sometimes

it’s the head: projection

of the sky & a person

in it making words

into things: these feet

without pain.