It’s my 25th birthday & I’m out for a run along
the beach of Half Moon Bay, California. Evening’s
descended, the sky still hungover from the afternoon rain,
the waves lumbering to their own
My leg strikes the ground & instantaneously
I feel my body
feel its uneven barter of cell for cell,
its reduction into some sort of fleshy
I’m a slow runner — more often than
not I end up in the past.
Even on this night of salt & sand I can’t
help but think of a hundred runs before,
that time out at Lighthouse Point or
the convenience store in Shanghai that
sold fake Vitamin Water & reeked of
piss & cigarettes.
The point being that there
is no point. That the runner and the
running both run in circles.
The night that is any night spills
out onto a spotlit strip of surf
shops & chic bistros, behind each
plate of glass some din & vim
that belongs elsewhere, anywhere.