In shorts and Air Max shoes, gray sprouting from temples,
a man jogs past me, running on deeply furrowed ground.

I once wore shoes made for me by a cobbler in New York,
comfortable as an executive's wage. Now insects hum in
summer grasses songs that rhyme with endless war.

I will march no more, but pace the earth, until it swallows
my ashes, and Hekate greets me as one third of her own.