A run across Carnegie Bridge,
I see for miles.
The north
rock towers,
Lake Erie
distance. Underfoot
swans tack the
Cuyahoga snow crust.
Art deco, overhead
eyes swaddling Cleveland,
steel carved in stone on
steel under stone.
Traffic
is light.
There is silence
even in my stride. The pace
a great muffler:
my girl,
her slow smile,
that dead-end job like
dish duty.
now
else
where
wires in my calves
tighten unstrung
rewind. That heart
beats—
my
heart?
—slowly faster.
The south is
a whole county
of people; none running.
Amen.
Amen I say.
Still Sunday, a pilgrim
eastward, mantra of
foot in front
of foot
body bends to
shape the street
eyes on graffiti, backs
of billboards,
concrete concentrate
mouths forget words
feet forget miles
This tang of street salt;
this winter air.
2.12.2006
I took a rather extended hiatus from running due to the crumminess of the weather last week and the extended crumminess of the sidewalks and road-edges even after the weather crapped out. Yesterday I woke up to snow, but by midafternoon it had mostly melted and I did 7.5 miles in 70 minutes, which is just a little faster pace than what I want to maintain for the marathon. I really got into the zone yesterday and time seemed irrelevant along with everything else. So I drafted a poem about it last evening.
I love running across the Carnegie bridge. I’d imagine running it at dusk in the summer is poem-inspiring as well.
I now think that poem sucks. Heh.
I like it. I identify with the random trains of thought that stream during a good run.