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I picture you and me

absurdly

running through

the valley
at Murreigh

smudging trails

of speed and

light and

colour and

horizon-straight blur

behind us

where we’ve been.

I want to turn
and look
to see if
really we ran

alone


for years.

But.

The speed

the exhilaration
of the race,

and the smiles


we both wear

keep me

facing

Eagle’s Hill

and running

and running.

This is absurd.

Not because it
isn’t a dream

(more a notion),

but

because I am asthmatic
and you are dead.