Morning Run

This slope winds upward in a steady spiral
Like a snail’s slow recollection of its creeping path.
With the end of each curve a new arc begins.
I start with warm-ups, flexing ligaments of ankle and knee,
Freeing the over-close adhesion of tendon to bone.

My last run was years ago, on a resort island.
I ran past cottages on cement, to a gullied sand track,
Only that sandy route led to the lighthouse
After rain I would leap from footprint to footprint
Like placing my feet on a hot griddle.

But this path is not a beaten track, it is broad and firm.
Here it curves toward oncoming sunlight, there through a tunnel of shade.
Breath-sounds come like a warm-blooded animal, dwelling in its burrow
Not affected by time, conducting its own quartet in my ear
If…this run…can just keep going, not tempted by any pause signs.

With every leg-stroke my brain keeps churning
A lamp enduring its brightness…the fit of arrow to bow.
Where to bury those expired promises, out-of-print lovers?
Ten years ago, the rusty fish I threw back ruthlessly
And that fatal undertow of hidden, impossible things.

Viewing one thing from different curvatures, I make discoveries,
Distant ocean shows changing forms, different transparencies,
As if revolving a smile in cupped hand along the winding path,
I watch a meditative youth come unfrozen in naked sunlight
Two dogs, clean-limbed and large, run ahead of their frail master.

Some say a storm once broke this path’s connectedness.
The denizens of this place were frightened by obstructing trunks.
Daily life of squirrels and sparrows, simple and full beyond imagining.
To warm myself in the crowd, or persist in dewy seclusion?
Going downhill, I tramp over this nettlesome question many times.

2/2004

Translated by Denis Mair

Last updated: November 29, 2004