bent into the shape of her thirsty embrace,carefully eight steps down familiar stairs, my legs brittle cold stiff from her hungry night, today I'm starting on the left side, first lap with a following wind, fierce flexible flap of rubber, a co-runner seemingly good-natured but actually sly, blessing my shoes with the okay sign, his pointing index finger asking something why or why not, who  gives a damn, eight steps for the length of one slab of concrete as a warm up, hopefully less as time goes by, dried orange peel yellow-red jammed in a crack, passed already, an orange peel as I said or was it silver, this jumping shadow in the calf muscles of the front runner, irritating to run it alone in my imperfect way, silent curses of pain and frustration,swallowed by shrieks of the sea birds,in the absence of words used as sling shotsfor the art of running in circles, eye catch of a red faced cripple on the second lap, placed between warning flags in a patrolled area, his courageous push ups in loose sand on crutches, imagine his plight, to suffer his agony, now on my right, just missing the dog shit, lean yellow brown wind dried, or was it silver, maybe last week, when is rained shit from heaven and was hit by a careless jogger, printed on the concrete with precise length of his steps, fading quickly past recognition, less, lesser, least, finally gonepush ups on crutches, what do you know, no dancer could do it his way, a fighting cripple in front of the curling surf, even has his photo taken by a young girl between warning flags, push ups on crutches, what do you know, the keyword beingsurveillance surveillancesmall flash of silver as I have mentioned, between ever tenacious grass in the crack, not that it mattered or even slowed down, but maybe worthwhile inspecting on the third lap, as it seems to be growing in value, another eye catch a black man from dream time nearby with a wheel barrow, mending some holes in the trackmy eyes are licking the concrete in search for initials in a frozen heart, carved by some ceremonious hot finger in virgin concrete, yesterday, a memory of love arrow pierced for the old woman, her body despised like the black man from dream time nearby, stalking on beetle legs in front of me white, next to me grey, past me gone black, short panting near the heap of rubble and quickly another flash before a possible collapse: what ever has happened to the art of ball room dancingsmall drift of sand against the curb as a side line, the line being a breath, slow slog over slab and another, broken caved-in like a lid on a grave site still not redeemed, but reserved for the black man from dream time or the old woman on beetle legs, shaking the cramps out of her armshead wind shredder for emotions of pity, we are the runners, we are the winners, another curse of silent frustration, pain in the ankles made of glass, passing a well dressed master, who doesn't jog,  who walks his dog, who brings in the paper and fetches the slippers and shits on the concrete before the rain sets infrom behind painful in jealous ear the rhythm of rival feet grating the music of flapping rubber humming a sharp stab between my shoulder blades, drop dead, I'll throw your balls in a blender, slight slope just before the turning point, as the fire seeps slowly through the soles of my running shoes and the panting near the rubble marking the cave-in from yesterday: a beautiful photo of her at the ball room dancearms locomotive like push rods, two steps conquered annulled, which leaves only six for the length of one concrete slab, more warnings and signals from muscles in concave explosions, all wrong, all eaten up by too much ball room dancing, how does it happen, how do we get entangled in the first place, not being endowed with enough animal life and rather talking about love and tenderness while spotting an  approximate shape as one of her kind to hold warm, black haired encircled to and from, dancing like idiot-birds of paradise, all in a sweat down there, something slow rubbing under a murky light, the point being, that one relied always on rubbing and didn't have to get it right the very first timeresidue of night sweat, cracks filled with sand and semen, the lid lifted from the grave to explore all dream time bodies gone before her,lovely the smell of her dead hair,mystery growing in the compound of the hermetically sealed five cent sun flash of silver as reward for the chest pain, give it up, should have done so a long time ago, should have collected the money and run, close to collapse, while poking it greedily from the crack, listening to the racing heart with a worry, fuck jogging, fuck health, fuck yesterday and the sun tanned cripple old pensioner's home stench, from the window sill sipping the waves as a night cap, look at the lights of the dance hall, my sweet, your despair of abandonment passed on to the dog already half dead between torpid furniture, strangled by chocolate avalanches, I am swaying with your decrepit old body to the rhythm of the surf one two three, one two three, slow motion waltz through syrup of dream time, diving back into the swoon of when you came, panting between the remnants of yesterday, collecting a deep breath for the last lap of forward and backward,the sadness of having lost you forever, we are the runners, we are the losers, it's as simple as that.