His compact frame and bald head, light beard and limited facial expressions
left them fascinated by his speed, slow motion replays of each step
and how it seemed the final push could turn
inches into miles

A runner who defines his event, with each step a pause rotating around time
a being caught by wings on their hands and feet by the pulse of
a moment before impact to glide over
a memory of what is

Wings on the hands and feet and naval touching the ocean. Sleeping cliffs
in the distance with arches that lead to a history before
writing, to the first time honey was
transported to the peaks
where sunshine was all that was known
before the descent into night where claws grow from the touch
of greater grandparents and battle marred swords held by rotting leather

Dance of cutting motions, cuts that made our future and now further
through blood, flesh and the sharp stars of struggle
it all sounds easy now, the race to the end of time,
but it was a long and broken limp

skeletons invite you to hear them tell the truth
the victor invites you to focus on his point of concentration
He runs and each step is saved from landing
impossibly postponed, gliding low
each inch added to become a mile
each mile a tale we welcome but cannot hear
from the mouth with no lips

Each voice gasping as the racers low glide stretches
closer and closer to the end, paused impossibly
The moment suspended, wings on our hands and feet
Navels to the ocean
Fingers to the planets and stars.