You speak
and I fall into memory, not my own.
The corners fade
Yet you are distinct
and more alive to me than myself.
Adjectives, nouns and verbs
become sight
and heart
and pace
straining toward phantoms.
Not standing,
not running,
my feet fly and you cross the line.
Thundering pulse of sweat and salt,
the race is won –
although you tore through ribbon long ago.
by J. Clark Feb. 14, 2010
Dedicated to Brian Roots with hope for many more victories.