It swallows me like the ominous
rise of the long hill on my morning

run, when I try to play tricks
on my mind, distract it, make it

think about something,
anything, else—the chattering

robins who flit from one branch
to another, a fenced dog’s unbidden

bellow announcing his existence
to the world at large. But it’s not

enough, and for now
there is only the inescapable

burn of my lungs, sweat pooling
on my back and brow, the endless

familiar lead-heavy drag,
the burden of being in my body.