Scenes from a Fugitive by Michael Igoe

 I assemble all I possess
 out of cold ground.
 At certain moments,
 something's rude,
 another thing prefixes
 everything I do.
 I manage to clear space
 away from the precipice.
 Both things, ground and precipice,
 are in order:
 one denies another
 in each wave of features.
 Time is occupied
 with what is inborn.
 These assessments under control,
 I run headlong, full speed
 on a dry creek bed.
 Senses dull from lack of water
 I must arrange slowly to stop.
 Vast fires take hold,
 sweeping the forests.
 I remain untouched,
 I knew I lit this fire
 from my last cigarette.
 I kept running, eager,
 to work out a series of numbers.
 Symbols, each one what I wanted.
 I bear out my wily escape, jugular.
 I'm flat on my back,
 flapping my arms,
 wild animals surround me,
 to ask if I too run in a pack.  
Photo by Donald Tong on

About the Poet:

Michael Igoe. Numerous works in journals online and print. Recent: Avalanches In Poetry Anthology Spare Change(Boston). National Library Of Poetry Editors Choice Award 1997. Twitter: MichaelIgoe5. Urban Realism, Surrealism. I like the Night.

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