It starts with a downward glance
the inadequate knot on your right lace
a niggle in the left knee,
a hunger pang
tense Achilles,
but you keep going
stitches subside
and soon, you’re
skipping potholes like spring traps,
weaving through scaffolding jutting out like vines,
your panorama blurs,
you’re panting,
all that matters is the exhale
(we never think of the inhale do we?)
It’s just the exhale
and you’re panting,
it’s all about rhythm, in your step and in your breath; rhythm
when you stretch, rhythm when you flex
and you’re panting,
you feel closer to your ancestors; primal,
the elements will bow before you
master of earth and winds
and yet
you’re panting
look at how the blossoming trees pepper your way
they perspire with scents of lilac covered joy
and the clouds, grey and blanched
smile down like ancient sages
and you’re one with them,
as the dew of your lungs reach up to the heavens;


The girl in No. 13

She calls me

she moves like the Mediterranean
sprinkled with its salt and spices,
smile like polished ivory,
   like, gifts from Sheba
darkest curls like the moon over the camels on the Levant;

and I’m sticky with her light
she makes me feel like
          prized pearls draped on the fairest queen
like a smooth pebble lapped by soft waves on the shore.

I ought to make her mine,
so I can sink in her breath
and soak in the fragrance of her touch.