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.
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.