Liszt and Treadmills
While running I think that classical music is chaste;
swollen from a surgical hemorrhaging -a pulsing manifesto,
fingers pounding forward and back, as an ax man might
chop down a tree - back and forth,

back and forth

those virginal aria's,
sonata's birthed from moonlight
and a kiss replaced from a palm, sound
devoid of a mouth.

While running I look for Liszt outside the window, haunting
those autumnal pathways; those bird calls, street cackling, car
horns

back and forth.