The runners: The ones who know what it means
to leave and do it anyway, smoking
each other out of their hives like the bees,
and the bee keeper, and the bee keeper’s
wife. The ones who devoured the honey
and set fire to the honeycomb, blind
with desire—for more, yes, but also
for less. The buzz behind their ears never
nearing their brains. The ones who‘ve seen sirens
set the atmosphere ablaze, who instead
of smothering the flame, strangled the view
with the laces of their new yellow shoes.
Ode to the runners
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Lizzy Burnam 🐞 
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