Home run

 

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Like a cat, I beat with sweat
the bounds of home: it is the stride
on flagstones, gravel, city road;

it’s the capacity of lungs
to hoist tired legs up to the moor;
the lift of stinging eyelids

to observe goldfinches flurry
from a dry stone wall, watch swallows
dart between taut wires;

it’s to grasp these sheets of sky
and stuff my vision with the hills:
own none of it at all, and call it mine.

This poem was published in Clear Poetry, October 2015

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