by Kathleen Kraft
The faceless runners, loping rhythm of long legs,
charging arms and knees. They run toward us—
singing yellows, watery blues—
they have never been so close and unreal.
Flanking each other inside columns of light,
they descend on a track of pinkorange.
No sweat, no story here, but a jaunty pastel dance.
Every stride, another push, up,
into the brain where color flows out and in again.
They are—we are—inside ourselves, faceless.
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Kathleen Kraft received her MFA in Creative Writing from Sarah Lawrence College and is a student at the Writer’s Studio in New York City. She has been published on anderbo.com and prose-poems.com. She lives with her fiance in Jersey City, NJ, where she teaches creative movement.
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