I have found myself lately

running on the treadmill

and surprised I am there,

as if I have given up walking

in fields and this is the

substitute instead; and I am

admired for my running and

thought I wished for the praise,


But of late the treadmill is

not a source of life, nor of

the elusive hope that I have

wished for in this other dream.


It is for me a running to nowhere

in artificial light among the admirers,

while all that is tangible and dear

is left aside to memory’s dream

of something long ago that was

this zest, this urgent wish to live full all

of this very short and wonderous life.