You are just there,
with only walls between us
and your line of things felt wrong.
I am your wrong.
And I am last in every instance of this race.
and still I run.
my search for you and, left unsaid,
your need for me,
is slowed by things left old:
– old men
– old friends
each one put end to end,
and fitted once again,
stuck fast with things felt wrong.
Am I that old horse, meant to race no more,
the only chase stopped cold?
“And there he trots, unwise, where others
past have tread,
to factories where the old colts go.”
How tired I grow, how out of shape.
My passion pinned on walls
of things felt wrong.
And how I’ve tried, each time the same,
and tired now, and old and tame,
I see the races’ end die very young.
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