Fridays in Verse: Visions of Phantom Spring

This one comes to us from 2008, from the Notre Dame era and my questionable forays into free verse. 

Bruised fingers—
Grass stains—
Toes squishing blood and mud and
Smack leather pimple-skin against itself
running ten and twenty and down—
Breathing clouds and wind
and air like wasted years coughed up from yesterday’s gut—
Dancing whirlwinds on tarmac,
rough prints inking sunstolen memories
of heat and breath,
bodies writhing, one two three, and melting heaving into muck—
Pumping grungy rubber, rolling,
weaving through gridmarked jungles and electric stars
and dreams floating zigzag through brushing fingers
and dizzy eyes—
Crashing curbs
and pealing starry songs
with broken wheels squeaking broken time,
cheeks sick-hot and stoned and artery-red—
Screaming heartbeats and useless lines
all flower-pretty and painful and pushing hammers into bone
and words into fingertips,
heart-words and head-words,
vain words circling leather and clouds and dances and midnight rides,
and straining to stars and touching treetops—
and crashing. 

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