running (before a rustling wind)

there is a wind
that blows
in the middle
of the night

prickles my skin
to a millimeter deep
bakes it

my venetian blind
is restless
at the thought
of fire

if I turn out
the light
in this oven I become
a sauna

forms in beads
in little salty dreams
on my forehead

they run
they run run run
like tears

down my nose
in streaks across my cheeks

they run
run and run and run
like a faded memory
of rivers

where the fish
could swim
without drowning

the wind
rustled my venetian blind
again and I can’t sleep
in a night
that is rehearsal
for an ultimate burning

the prickle
of my skin

but if we light the dark
we might need to
run and run and run

we might need
to run and run


5 thoughts on “running (before a rustling wind)

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