You know I will run as far as you will go

up to the hot lick of ice,

wrap my rounded hurt around your space

as a baying hound would do -

pad your face out over a place

blank enough to erase,

snare your scent amongst a gawping mist

that rises over the lake

and caps you here; the gulping escape.

 

I will serenade

a blue annual

to disgrace the hard heart

of any red, a lesson then

as old as the northern sky

and that blush that comes

with knowing where to shed

your limbs for a furnished meal,

a throne, I said, in your arms,

a glass, thrown.

 

I have no ignorance –

the wink of white –

to pardon any cornered coarse

snatch of men and might.

I have begun too soon

and say things too ready to regret,

if winter does

then winter is yet

to solder me infertile.

 

I have ballet,

I have aplomb,

I have the dark side of the sun,

I tear rolling thoughts undone

with uniform and where the lull is drummed,

into hearts and into minds

and into where

the fractions of one have won.

 

I have a tail

curled courtly wise

in the snake of an economic tide,

a thrift more sepia - a closing eye -

puffed out into the movement of fists

fighting lost in the bet of this

kiss

and fencepost

standing to resist.

 

 

I will go as far as I will go,

though you run and run.