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