Barefoot and sprinting through some desert—
sharpened weeds and cacti and occasional lone flower
go about the business of bending for the wind.
By midday, the body’s chest heaves again, sweat
bursts into the world wherever the body
lets it. How long, how hard the sun hits.
How blistered and torn the feet
on hot sand, how red the face, how tears or sweat
burn eyes in the rush, the speed
of the body and always the wind. The only sound
the rhythmic pounding of feet
against sand. Ahead the illusion of water
or woman, the blurry shaping
a way out, a way into another country
where wind is carnivorous and sand
a puff of smoke. But still the running, still
the subtle grace, an end of knowing. At dusk
a slight ringing in the ear, a sharp
pain in the side, muscles tearing
in the heat of thighs, bloody feet: each a reason
to keep at it, the possibility of what the body
can do. And in the false distance
the focus, unwavering and unconscious—
a lone, withered flower flutters a little.
There are 264 days remaining in Bush's presidency.
