Drift Fly
I run up this street.
I run up this street
and this street is my face. This morning
is my face.
Steam, urgency, immediacy.
It does not care. Challenge is that.
Challenge is seeing
the lawn like blood, covered in blood
when the sunlight
strikes it so. This morning
is autumn. This blood
is maple leaf, bright. These
branches slice the morning. These branches like pistons
like fists. These fists
pound the morning. My fists
beat the morning.
Challenge is what.
Challenge is not.
Move past. Move past
with rubbery footfalls. Move past
with salt. Move past
with exhale. I watch this street.
I look down at this street. I watch
this street and I see
this street like black
when my mind strikes it so. Challenge
is not looking ahead. I run
this street. Up
does not care. This street does
not. Challenge does not.
This morning is that.
For fucking once.
Bio: Mel Bosworth is the author of Freight (forthcoming 2011 from Folded Word) and Grease Stains, Kismet, and Maternal Wisdom (Brown Paper Publishing, 2010). Visit him at http://eddiesocko.blogspot.com/