ALWAYS SOMETHING MORE BEAUTIFUL

This time I came to the starting place

with my best running shoes, and pure speed

held back for the finish, came with only love

of the clock and the underfooting

and the other runners.

Each of us would be testing excellence

and endurance in the other,

though in the past I’d often veer off

to follow some feral distraction

down a side path, allowing myself

to pursue something odd or beautiful,

not trying to, but becoming acquainted

with a few of the many ways

to measure success and failure.

I had come to believe what’s beautiful

had more to do with daring

to take yourself seriously, to stay

the course, whatever the course might be.

The person in front seemed ready to fade,

his long, graceful stride shortening

as I came up along his side. I was sure now

I’d at least exceed my best time.

But the man with the famous final kick

already had begun his move. Beautiful, I heard

a spectator say, as if something inevitable

about to come from nowhere was again on its way.