First Run of 2018

Mid-June. Don’t judge.

The list of ways to better
myself always melts off
the tongue: be grateful, eat
carrots, exercise. Period.

Used to be I ran for courtship
but now I think how settled I sound,
gliding over the sidewalk’s grass clippings,
a product of suburban domestication.

Stones jangle in my stomach
as they do at the start
of each new thing: I’m leaving
this city, finally– magenta

in the sunset peeking out
from possible storm clouds.

It rained earlier. And at the end
of my route I’ll be a lake
packing for the move. Boxes

to open later– memories
of transformation, every
day running from
the younger self to now.


(originally published in Fleas on the Dog, Spring 2020)


You always have to run.

Short North to downtown,
city to city, Indiana

to Tennessee–
one shoe on gravel,

the other careening
through time and space

into a green
where you are unknown

and your running shoes are empty
at our red swing’s feet.

I know you never run to leave,
driving your horizon eyes

miles to sun– and you, after its setting,
glide beside each highway’s unlit rivers

on the bridge of the median, drunk
from driving so long under moon,

far from where our empty bottles
collect in a skyward infinity,

a mountain of clinking memories–
a marathon, a gap traversed quickly.

(originally published in VerseWrights)