When October’s morning glories trumpet our loss, you run.
When the day’s color concedes itself to leaves, you run.
When the earth rotates against you, you run harder.
When the earth changes its mind about you
and carries you along with it, you run faster.
When the skein of pain tightens across your thighs,
you run more. When our hands tell the time
in the dead hours where memory is sand,
you pull me from the bed and two hundred feet
below the earth by the gorge’s lasting stream we run.
When the moon flows like the reflection
it is, you run across the river of stars and your feet
do not splash against the night. Because the night
is as shallow as a puddle and you are as light
as the reflection of streetlights above you, and as still as you are
in the soul of my sleep, ahead of the curve of memory, you run.