We run barefoot on a globe of needlecarpet
trying to call each other's names,
not knowing the names. Two throats
open to the air. Two bodies run
for more breath, thinking that their rush
will fill them with enough to call
across the planet's prickly miles.

This is twilight activity;
in the noons & nights we build
chain-link fences in many places,
hoping that a friendly playground
or neighborhood will erupt
where we can reside between the rattles
in metallic breezes.

We run barefoot to a shoestore
that closed decades ago, trying
to buy something that will move us
faster on our heels towards
the beginnings of us together.
Our lives move at the pace
of the cash register's pleasureless
pleasure, then run
with the rhythm of blood.