I am running

Along a wet street

Beneath gray skies,

My earbuds singing

As I try to measure

My breath

To the rhythms

Of Bowie and Watsky,

When I stop

And look at them

Hanging from the limb

Like a pair

Of dead and forgotten things.

 

My first thought

Is Ravenclaw,

And I whisper,

“Nargles?”

 

Then I wonder

If one of Frost’s boys

Bent a birch

Too far

And launched himself

Into the heavens

Leaving only these

As a sign

Of his ascendency.

 

Then I ask

If the All-Father

Could not find

A man to hang today

And so his ravens

Brought only footwear.

 

I consider breaking

The fourth wall

And asking Wade Wilson

As I imagine

His regenerating grin

Beneath a red mask.

 

And then I remember

That I am in Sumter.

 

There are those cynics

Who say that Sumter

Is a place

Devoid of miracles

Even though

It’s a town of churches,

But I wonder

At the tiny signs

Of ourselves

That we grow

In the forests

Of our pasts,

Waiting for travelers

To happen upon

And ponder.

 

Every now and then

I think I can see

Around the corners

Of the universe,

But then I return

To this plane.

 

Bono tells me

That I must

Free myself

To be myself,

And I start running

Again

Until I think

My heart will burst.