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.