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Not marathons,

although that kind has

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its own exhilaration

and I am not unmindful

of Greek origins

and the identity

of the last winner

in ancient

times, Varasdat

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the Armenian,

showing how

strangers can

take trophies after all;

and not the fear-

haunted pace along dark

city streets,

nor the dash for the plane,

a rattling heart

loose in the ribs.

No, the kind of running

I mean is seen

from train windows:

small boys rushing by

waving, waving,

or a girl in a distant

field of daisies

her hair aloft

and in your mind's eye

a father waiting

in their car

for her return,

her arms full of

black-eyed flowers.

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