A Poem

Run.

The morning gate

Saturn’s wake

I sat still, lying half awake

The holy accordance of the dancing mistresses

I would watch from the side of my eye

Seeing as the fog rolled over the midnight sky

There, you would run

Faster than your baby lungs could carry

Watered down to mere acquaintances.

Sunday best, adorned by Mother Mary

The breath that would anger ever so still would be caught by the

rays of the distant sun.

Swallowed whole by the enamored guests, wanting and waiting.

And there, I would say “Little child, run.”