Day 3: Runner 

who can remember the point? it is the name

that eludes me, memory siding with musqueam

unconcerned with which british subject far from home

dabbed this bit of geography with his tag; the point is

all beacon, named or not. runners pass by, inbound

outbound, rotationally correct. every one who passes

reminds me of his long sleeved blue shirt

square-knuckled hands swinging, distance-eating stride

he probably still has that way of ducking his head

to compensate for tough terrain. stanley park eases

around along coal harbour, tide low enough for

muddy sand, exhalation of shelled life

now above surface, the city in view.

 

he used to run this well-worn way and meet

men of the city, whose eyes assessed

his angles and youth, hungry.

he loved stanley park more, he said, tucking

his chin, after his step-dad. of course, clean sea

wind, cedar scented paths. the thing,

he said, chin up again, is, those men

offered me their numbers. sometimes

like now, every runner reminds me of him

chin down, chin up, eyes far as the sea

steady swing, muscled thighs.

 

shelled life exhales muddy breath.

sometimes, these young men pass

in silence.