Art Bones

from nyc
to florida
to denver
then nyc
then montreal,
I keep going, 
running from 
three or four years ago
like it is a wild dog
hunting me
and my spirit. 

all I am is breath
and art bones,
subjected to the weather of poetry
like rain on a roof,
pelting and rusting
the rivets over time. 

she is a figment 
of my past imagination
but she keeps me going
like a carrot in front of a horse,
gallop away.

in the middle,
there was other places,
other girls,
but on the horizon
and within the themes
of forever, 
there was her
and I am still running
away on shakey knees
with stupid wrists,
because I can't win
in hide-and-seek.