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.