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The Low Run
It’s a quiet street
where the run begins,
where weeds and grass
inhabit the cracks.
Look down.
Look down for the Creeping Charlie
tattooed on the neighbor’s lawn,
for the half-rotten walnuts
that blemish the turf.
Look down now
for the rash of sand and gravel
where once
you stumbled and bled.
(Imagine your feet
on that uneven ground
as a phrenologist’s hands
examining a lumpy skull.)
It’s a low landscape
that supports your daily dash,
where crabgrass and chicory
and goldenrod thrive
and roadsides
wear wild mustard.
(Imagine nature
making our leaders small for a spell,
scant
as the hapless ants
under our shoes.)
Look down,
live close to the ground
as you skim
over the skin
of this world.
© 2006 by Brian Powers |