We started running again when we realized
we'd forgotten the way our sweat smelled: grassy and
like the front yard and side field
on an August day.
90 degrees but your weather app might as well read feels like fucking hell.
All of us stuck down here,
running our lawn mowers over dead animals,
pulling on our knee-highs to wade through the swamp,
timing it so our feet squash the cattails right when the sun splatters our faces.
like tics on a horse hide,
like honeysuckle on the highway.