Sonne-décrisse – Ro Runkel

October 15, 2025

And I arrived, jug-eared and bitten, but on time. Ticking,
stuttering, the arrow makes its way through
the tree. Couched in lame banality,
stretching sameness. The cushion of
day and night.

Drizzling, in sheets and blankets, not so
an hour but the hour. The needling wet.
On the wind, bow flighty, it is cutting.
And again, coffee, cuticle, peppery exhaust,
tee shirt collar thick with spit. Teeth loosening. The last exit.

In windows and shirts, smooth sinew flits
in fire warm. Docks and harbors with taut lines,
slacking and swayed. It was early; I waited outside,
pockets all holes. Deep pockets, ridges, a hand in a pocket
a tooth once was, no longer.

Jaw twitching the throat, long game of ditch,
knocking and running, falling over. The door and through
it the sound. Laughed and ran. Slated cloud and
speck air, uncleaned. Pock-lunged, rasped knifing,
water clings to stone, rolling down.

How put it?
Something got lost.