that point when i am running up a hill 
(whether i choose to do so or not) 

when i feel i can’t keep jogging 
because the sky fishdances 

and the chest airleaks 
and the orbit redfunnels 

and then right before the houses 
and asphalt clamp 

my bronchioles soften and air comes 
and the legs blur without a host 

and i levitate inside a sphere 
a puff of whisper inside a glass 

and no amount of pain 
can word inside the 

floating

Scott Ferry

As an RN in the great Pacific Northwest, Scott Ferry helps our Veterans heal. In other lives, he taught English and practiced acupuncture. He also serves as Senior Editor at Gleam: Journal of the Cadralor, and his writing appears in American Journal of Poetry, Cultural Weekly, KYSO Flash, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Misfit, Noble/Gas Qtrly, Slippery Elm, Spillway, and Swimming with Elephants, among others.

His third book of poetry, These Hands of Myrrh, is upcoming from Kelsay Books. His first collection, The only thing that makes sense is to grow, was published by Moon Tide Press in December 2019, and his second, Mr. Rogers kills fruit flies, by Main Street Rag in October 2020.

Author’s website: https://ferrypoetry.com