Bound

In the race that is only
A race if you say it is,

There’s a thick, dark finish line
And that’s it. No course exists.

Almost no one is racing.
Everyone’s milling around.

Heaps of people line the line,
But few throw themselves over.

Something happens when they do.
No one’s quite sure what it is.

The line is always there, but
The line is never the same.

Near or far, most turn their backs.
A few odd characters stare

At the line suspiciously,
Waiting for revelation.

What is the line finishing?
Once in a while, a small soul

No bigger than a word will
Wander away from the line

As if running in reverse.
Follow that word. It stretches

And circles the horizon
Until the word is the line.