Jogger Poem by Leslie Philibert

Being chased by a ghost, the roots of his teeth
break with impact, joints tied together with string,
corpus filled with compressed breath.

He gasps stones, grit and smoke, an air maschine,
a wet, strained mask, the bottom of his lungs filled with silver.
His heart shakes like a shocked bird.

It is as if all things in the park have been stilled,
left and right, one and two, all under the grey
now out in bad standing.