Running Story

Twice now, in three days,
I've gone running,
   paved Broadview giving into
   a bridge, dirt path beaten
   beside steel guardrail, and the
   cul-de-sac: supermarket parking
   lot.
And twice seen you, too big to be
a hawk,
wings, spread translucent at noon,
panning gold slow circles, preying above,
thrown wide, implicated, sublimated.

I bruise my lungs traversing
the distance you elide in one-tenth my time.
Bird, what injustice they do you,
with that silly German commandment:
"Be aloof."
Lufttiere, you are nothing of the kind,
watcher, mixed like a worm into
this earth.

I come to the bridge strutting that ravine,
Bridle cables, spans and rivets,
     tree river tree trail wind traffic.
Each foot dives for ground
that pushes forward, up,
us
I breathe,
implicated, supplanting
I cannot rest.

---

Quite simply, I run because I don't know how to pray. To quote Little Mike: "Stupid soccer players! Why would you run for a purpose when you could run endlessly?" I made good time today, and saw that bird again, and this came of it. I tore an old notice off of a pole ("Important meeting September 30th, 2004, in the Library - babysitting available.") as palimpsest on which to scratch the first draft, which was awful, of that poem. I don't usually have drafts, first or subsequent, but on the run back I pretty much rewrote it in my head.

Our dishes aggregate themselves on the kitchen counter, almost like coral growth, forming increasingly precarious columns. Now, to satisfy my domestic obligations, I must wash enough of them to at least knock a couple feet off the top, thereby ensuring ongoing stability.