All I could find
to write on
was this narrow
strip of paper,
the width
of which truncated
my lines into
something that
looked like a
poem but was
in fact
not.
I was thinking
about running
and racing
and another life,
about lungs
exploding and
everything wanting
to stop but not
stopping because
that's not
what you
did, in a race.
Now I like
to stop. Have
to stop. Or
not do it at
all. That's
how it is
and I don't mind
it.
But I always
start up again,
even if all that's
left is down
the block. Because
I want to.
I stopped
writing stuff
down for a
long time
because I forgot
or my mind
was full or
empty and
now my
guts are burning,
my limb are
twitching.
I still have
nothing to say
but I found
this narrow
strip of paper
and filled it
up because
it's a start.
After a
stop.
