"Inglewood, Quarantine"

My track club can’t meet,

so the new volley

of repeats

starts with a stranger’s smile

at the Forum,

current stand-in

for that awful

I need, “Damn,

man, you’ve

got wings,”

which helps, rings loud

at a new round

in an ancient fight, yes,

gravity wins, we

are all losing

but,

it’s just

a law

in time

we never

get back

from a spin

on a super-dense core

beneath us all

and we

are what unwinds

from the heart

like twine

from spooled hurt,

wears a shape contoured

to how often

we unfold,

how we stay

electric in lungs

in a passage

of gore

conducting the scream

of why, oh, why,

do you

love this

like you do

and cannot listen,

maintaining the stomach

for what lets me

lose self,

clearly states

what we have to,

have to

find again,

and

again.