The road under her feet,
her ally; road grit, shin splint
sorcerer. The solitary champion,running
against her shadow,her heart beat,
leaping the felled log, cutting
the corner close, branch braising
her hip, leaving a lover's blush
against her hip.
As on the court, her back-
hand stronger than straight on, left-
handed inconsistency flying
over the fence or
right at you. Duck and cover,
play the net, go for the long
shot. He passes near, running close
to the tree line, ahead and
behind the blind. His courage wrapped
in the knot of terror snaking
along his satorious. Blazing
impoverished trails to Atlantis
never arriving, fishtailing into
the drift, collision muffled by enjamb-
ment. She traced his trajectory,
gathered bark, created salves,
massaged, grew titanium thin, perfected
her forehand, still left-handed, ill-
suited for partners playing, returning
to the grit beneath her sole, running solo.
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2 comments:
I found "DD" receipt and decided to visit again, it's been a long time! reading your writing(thoughts) makes me crave "spinning" ... ;-)
...where are you running to?
"She discovered that she wasn't running to get away, but sometimes she just needed to run."
That is from a story about a dog who escapes the fence now and then, just to run.
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