run proud, out loud (mon’s done)


ran one
with my girlie
and another 1.5 on my
own, on my toes –
the sun a rising
apricot stone.



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Orion’s Wheel


We steal celestial moments,
thread our words through belt
loops touched only by
gods light years away.
We call names.

Fall apart.

Whistle and wait
for the echo of
our own syllables.

The stars are pin-prick cat prints
on construction paper,
somebody gnaws a moon
-ring in the black licorice
of this broken sky.



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run one, for sun

plus one
makes two
after two
snooze bars
more sun
more fire lung
more sweat

……………are we there yet?

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run two (sat)

in a zombie-esque trance,
dance with that rising sun,
take a chance
on these poor crazy knees.

here’s a hint:
5am’s fine –
but ya really gotta
go to bed
by 9.



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The Land of Un(Sleep)


The clock is ticking
(me off)
again, tocking too loud again,
clicking and clocking
the hours lost.

The moon is mocking
my lack
of sleep, my uncounted sheep,
the tilted cost of thinking
too hard at 2am.

I, too, am stilted,
fried, filtered through
by too much gravel
and noise, too many
doubts. Too much why.

Prompted by toads

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thirsty thursday

ran one
with two
crazy kids, then one without
and no doubt: 5am is easier
than 7:15, when that sun
has already taken charge
of this too-bright sky,
and I am sweating, dreading,
threading breath through
fiery lungs and steamy skin.

i much prefer pre-sunrise,
the apricot surprise
of blushing skies,
and silence.


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She’s wearing her blue dress, the best
one she owns and she knows it’s still

not good enough but it’s all she’s got –
that and a smile. And the man asks

how to spell her name, and it doesn’t
sound the same on his tongue, like she

doesn’t quite recognize her own syllables.
Her shoes pinch and it’s a cinch that

this one-page self-syllabus in her hand
of all she’s been and is and ever will be

won’t be enough, but she’s tough and so
she’s here, all wrinkled linen and hope.


twiglet #28.

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