Stephen Dunn

Night is longing, longing, longing, beyond all endurance. —Henry Miller The back roads I’ve traveled late at night, alone, a little drunk, wishing I were someone on whom nothing is lost, are the roads by day I take to the car wash in Hammonton or to Blue Anchor’s lawnmower repair shop when the self-propel mechanism goes. Fascinating how the lamplight that’s beckoned from solitary windows gives way to white shutters and occasionally a woman in her yard, bending over something conspicuously in bloom. So much then is duty, duty, duty, and so much with the sun visor tilted and destination known can be endured. But at night . . . no, even at night so much can be endured. I’ve known only one man who left the road, followed an intriguing light to its source. He told me that he knocked many times before it became clear to him he must break down the door.

This time I came to the starting place with my best running shoes, and pure speed held back for the finish, came with only love of the clock and the underfooting and the other runners. Each of us would be testing excellence and endurance in the other, though in the past I’d often veer off to follow some feral distraction down a side path, allowing myself to pursue something odd or beautiful, becoming acquainted with a few of the ways not to blame myself for failing to succeed. I had come to believe what’s beautiful had more to do with daring to take yourself seriously, to stay the course, whatever the course might be. The person in front seemed ready to fade, his long, graceful stride shortening as I came up along his side. I was sure now I’d at least exceed my best time. But the man with the famous final kick already had begun his move.Beautiful, I heard a spectator say, as if something inevitable about to come from nowhere was again on its way.