I Am Counting My Days
like sheep. Like an evening shepherd
set to snooze. My days
are numbered:
each wearing a little race bib, each
number be-logoed with community
sponsors as sweat shepherds in
the evening on an ultra-marathon
of days. Straining 600 (to
innumerable) muscles, every
one of them sore and wet
with blood and moving, the days
run through me. I am run through
by baa-ing days, my body a pastoral
racetrack, a cradle rocked
by passing as—how
beautifully, how blithely, how sheepily!
—the days race by.
