Jogger
Being chased by a ghost, the roots of his teeth
break with impact, joints tied together with string,
corpus filled with compressed breath.
He gasps stones, grit and smoke, an air maschine,
a wet, strained mask, the bottom of his lungs filled with silver.
His heart shakes like a shocked bird.
It is as if all things in the park have been stilled,
left and right, one and two, all under the grey
now out in bad standing.
poem by Leslie Philibert
Added by Poetry Lover
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