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The Dead Jogger

You can run until your pulse and moisture and breath
batter their own singular path through the dry nettles

bearing the body like the ice in the heart of a comet
and should it slam into a Citroën, or the heart unhitch

itself from its own vital rhythms in a casual misstep,
the whole meat could be cast like a coat in the ditch

and the pulse and hot breath carry on, startling cattle
and treading leaves at the edge of the football pitch,

the unrefined stuff of the soul according to Aristotle,
at least, if De Pneuma can be attributed to Aristotle.

Eoghan Walls

Magma Poetry

Spring 2017

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