"This melancholy London - I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air. - W. B. Yeats

Thursday, September 30, 2010

Hyde Park: Thursday, September 2010

I ran

miles

Until it started to feel like flying

Until it started to feel like flying away.

I was filling my head with sound

Stretching for escape from the dirt of the days

Reaching toward the setting sun over the windy water.

The skin on my feet is breaking

Like the drumbeats between my eyes.

And I ran from the swans

who came right up to my shoulders

and I wished I was one of them

a warm white and feathered body

which floats on water

as if it had no weight at all.

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