The Copper Taste

The hill is a wall I’m trying to climb

with lungs that are losing the fight.

I’m trading my breath for a bit of time

and the cold and the failing light.

Then it hits the back of my dry, hot tongue,

a tang like a penny or rust.

A physical toll from a heart and a lung

that are turning themselves into dust.

It’s the only thing that feels honest and real,

this metallic and heavy heat.

A wound that doesn't have time to heal

while I’m pounding the frozen street.