At Pease Park

Sensate: the word a scrim between the world and me. Words can’t carry
all my selves extended through the maze of a fingertip whorl, a glance.

Yes, I feel the grit between my sock and my heel, feel a tickle of sweat as
it trickles down my lower back, smell the resin of wood fresh-cut, of wet dog.

I see runners, each one a spectacular joy and catastrophe, gravity and time
playing with them, with me, their motion telling stories they wouldn’t admit to
a breathing world exhaling beauty everywhere, the roving eye of this beholder.