I go out running on my own
it's late at night and you don't know I'm gone
and if it's moonless
you will ask me over breakfast
"why is your face a bloody mess"
and I will remember
the sweet sting of crackling branches
and say "I guess I had an itch"
I have a spineless inability to stay indoors
that's why I'm padding through
pine needles on the forest floor
and I am out of doors --
out of windows,
out of welcome mats
and out of explanations.
though the fire roars,
the hearth is cold
as the most distant of relations.
let me be
here at least
long enough to forget some of my
more cynical directives.
I will have triumphed if I'm anything
but what the gods expected.