It's nine AM,
I'm om the run in my own body,
thoughts disconcerted,
huddling up under the arched heaven
of the vertex,
dark and Haushofer hard,
while feelings keep digging, out of their wits,
in the heart tract,
grave upon grave,
hunting for the nearest death

Svante Pääbo extracts identities
out of twenty-thousand years old jewellery,
while I tear my memories
without locating myself

I'm on the run,
head to toe,
in hot pursuit,
distanced, far off,
unaided,
each word a postponed suddenness
onto something,
feet off in future tracks,
the present an intent
on top of a wickedness, an empty-eyed eternity,
driving the escape down into the remarkable mechanics
of the knees,
the near future sweeping
around the soon enough of the body,
dressed in wind and drizzle,
with the words rolling unspoken
down impossible choices of path,
all carried out
in the escaped and the lost, the garbled and ghastly,
sordid and sad,
the stomach a pointless heaving
in the Omeprazol mist

I'm a refugee in my anatomy,
running the gauntlet through dark neighbourhoods,
each tenement house occupied by conflicting emotions,
every garbage container leaking blood and urine;
suicides chatting with each other
in the bleak facial light of the smartphones