Run

i know this run

but not the streets per se.

the sun rises on the other side

through loblolly pine, red oak, orange osage.

here, on the northern cusp of the south

the air is thick like you could grow things in it.

the deer regard me like i’m the curiosity,

passing strange.

i run down the exact middle of early morning streets,

terra firma, terra incognito,

and am almost home before i wake.