Hibernation Comfort
No one possesses this road this early.
The juxtaposition of ebony tar and light,
and the uneven patches where monsoon
dug its heels in welcome me as I lodge my claims.
In ten minutes I exhaust my energy to jog.
My shadow hibernates beside a boulder.
I have no power over this life I adore
because of these elongated winters,
caves of sleep, leaves of crackling, goodbyes
unfinished.
Fields Where We Belong
Fields turn brief beneath our running feet,
and the bridge, squares of formless green,
trees sketched by me when I was six.
If you ask me why we run we cannot tell.
There is a feeling. A trace of an urge.
Noon showers upon us, warm piss.
A hiss says that our ankles will be
dotted with fang-marks. We can comprehend
the serpent. Time winters here. We should not race.
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