I spent the last
of that morning’s
fourteen miles—
right hip snarled,
stride and pace
a capitulation—
considering my once-idle
question: How long
can I do this?
But also thinking
of the nectarine, waiting,
at its heavy-
fleshed brink.
I ate it, sliced
at meridians,
at my kitchen counter
standing—still
in my running
shoes, favoring the one
hip, every bite almost
the best of it. Let me make
this plain:
I raked the stone bare.
Licked the plate
and the blade.