I don’t look back

But I find the past washing up upon my heels

Sometimes running right past me

Then even my forward moving footprints take on a wet, deep, more pronounced shape

The treads of my shoes become noticeable

Even if I throw them away my toes are unmistakable

But if I lean foward

If I pick up the pace

My impressions take on a much lighter appearance

Dry, white, untreaded sand

And even though it’s somewhat harder to run

My traction certainly less

What’s thrown up behind me

Breaks up into tiny little specs

That the wind returns to earth



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