January 25, 2011
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The beetle black of
Worn track seems to gleam cruelly
All the way to the end
Of the world’s wide edge.
Its rough, rubbery fumes
Coat the walls of my nostrils
From the heat that swirls
Profusely up from the track
Around my running, sweating body.

I begin to stumble
And drag my noodled legs
At the last few meters.
My breath hastens out
Stammered, strident, and stinging
To my dry, cracked throat.
My thick spit tastes sour.

I cross the finish line and plummet
To the steaming turf as my heart
Pounds maliciously
Like a cavernous drum
To the rhythm of my relief and delight.

As I lay,
The world continues to turn around me.
And I realize that I just reached
The end of the world’s edge.
All its natural hindrances and vicious thorns
Falling back to the start
In defeat.

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