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November 29, 2014


On the run through grey trees,
his feet crushing pine into chill air.
Lovelorn or renegade?

Birds splinter the void as he forges
a lone path, straight as a die. He’s fleeing.
Or tracking. A fugitive of what?

It’s early and the pinecones crack
under foot, gunshots heralding
another large day. Psychotic angst?

Shaking with first frost, his fingers
hover; those opaque eyes, granite pebbles
in the gloom. He’s gaining on her.

A flash of auburn against the slate trunks
lights his way; that fleeting beacon tightens
his heart. A red herring? Or a twirl

on a December carousel, gilded steeds
galloping to the festive rise and fall? A heat-
seeking whistle spins him: blurring

like a top, crumpled. His cheek spiked on cold pine,
that crimson rivulet cooling to spectral. It was a
Yuletide sniper floored him. Lovelorn,

or renegade?

[‘lovelorn or renegade’ is a borrowed line from the song ‘Real Life’ (Angel) from Elbow’s album ‘ The Take Off and Landing of Everything’. Humble thanks.]

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