My feet relentlessly attack the pavement
And my aching knees stab in savage dissent.
The cerulean sky is languid, indulgent,
And the early spring air is soft and cool–
Much easier to breathe than the thin, winter cold.
A drum beat–a metronome–pours into my ears.
I struggle to keep up.
Suddenly, the acrid fanfare of the guitar cries
Like the peal of a naked, horny church bell,
And Jim Morrison’s passionate but unintelligible baritone
First barks and then slithers like a black snake
Insidiously into the spinning gears of the polyphonic clockwork.
The delicious, Dionysian danger of the music and the
Perfect pain of running are wrapped up
Into one overwhelming singularity:
It is the universe’s gift to me, and I throw myself into it.
Sailing to Byzantium 