Category: Poetry and Other Writing

You have a dream that
you're running and the harder
you run, the slower you move. Or
you are ever colder, each moment
you feel is the limit but then
you are colder still. Or hot:
The bead of water
rolls down the rock face, a
wet trail on sun-burned
stria that never 
quite reaches your parched
lips. Whenever you are
about to get ahead your car
throws a rod or your furnace
coughs black. Two steps forward,
one step back. Three more to
take.

You watch a pot.

It is a week before she comes
home and several weeks pass and
it is still a week before she
comes home. There are so many ways 
I could tell
her I love her without
actually saying
it.