Thoughts

Thinking—not blood.
The machine of the heart

slips into sequence
with the percussion

of feet on road,
the sunset orangish-red.

Not thinking of friction
or fluid, the thrum

of living. But I’m
alive. I’m thinking—

I will be found
wind-eaten and, at least,

sun-perfumed
from collecting dusty miles

like pennies in a swear jar.
I’m thinking—

this may be beautiful,
this unending

echo in every chamber
of me. This

is me pulling knives out
of my flawed soul.

This is me lighter than
an eyelash, veins

pulsing with air.
I’m thinking—I’m bleeding.

My thoughts drain
into the red horizon.

Dane Hamann works as an editor for a textbook publisher in the southwest suburbs of Chicago. He received his MFA in Creative Writing from Northwestern University, where he has served as the poetry editor of TriQuarterly for the past five years. His chapbook Q&A was recently published by Sutra Press.