Today my morning run felt awful until I was almost finished, and
this is also the sentence in which I admit that I never once consid-
ered going any farther.
Later, when asked to participate in a thought experiment regarding
preferences for my own demise, I chose a cause of death that in-
volves neither panic nor pain, though this may well mean both have
I’ll say this much: right now I’m pulling apart a tangerine, and
wherever and whatever these clouds were before they were here
feels irrelevant in light of my having only now realized that I’d ex-
pected something better from the sky.
That, and I’d like more from this minor wind and the leaves it acti-
vates, two sounds that seem to just catch in me briefly and die.
I let my face come open at jokes.
I let my pulse bump me slowly into sleep.
Sometimes I dream I’m playing a video game based on a movie in
which I’ve been chased.
Hurry down, function—there’s still sun on me.
Pain or panic I believe in I can taste.
Copyright © Graham Foust
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.