The Track at Weeks Field


The cinders pressed by thousands of feet
are turning to diamonds as we run
as we run we can see them changing
blinking among the helicoptered maple seeds
pressed like fossilized mushrooms into the dark
surface and the bits of dried grass blown
from the mowers and the
powdery black sun-baked mica

Our labor our immense cumulative labor
has no other monument than this
this debris
this amazing chemistry in slow-time
this wide ribbon of stones
this thoroughfare of well-tilled ashes