thumping of feet on the ground
like the heartbeat of the man
running running running
through the leaves and branches
whipping and whacking him,
sometimes on the nose
other times on the elbows
tripping tripping tripping
over roots and moving things
on the ground. it was alive it was
a muddy monster grasping at
his big toe
scuttling scuttling scuttling
on his crab legs with his heavy head
weighing a ton on his shoulders,
his left arm jutting out and trailing behind
like an elastic band.

It's coz of poets like you
who have sharpened my poetry
from an autumn leaf
you turned me into a poetic soil
manure
no not to forget you all
how you toiled
to pick up a soft blade of grass
to compose a line
like a robot
what an imaginary poetry pen

Could I refuse you
anything at all?
Are there sacrifices
too great to make,
promises too impossible
to keep while holding on to
the very part of you
that is home for me?
I cannot refuse to try,
will not watch your lovely face
fade from the picture I hold
so dear in my mind, its fragile corners
bent and tattered, worn from
believing that you and I are
more than a photograph
resting between pages in an empty book.
This is the nature of love:
stepping into the dark,

the nub, so sharp and lovely
full of life and prowess
as I stab it into my ink well
wonderful, red and dark as it seeps into the paper
as I write these words to you,
a love letter of my deepest affection
And sometimes it hurts so badly to love you
I'm not sure why
I cry out for you, even when I know you're not there
I don't care
I will write in elegant strokes until the day I die for you
flowing movements of my archaic pen
ignore the wound on my hand
and begin