You made me a race
from the womb to
the itch and stretch
of a world for me
to traverse around.
Inches then meters
to stride against:
first the garden to
the park's expanse,
by then countries
are feet then miles,
and so I become like
the drip of cloud-tears
on car window panes,
shooting themselves
down the weathered
sheet to be closer
to an end of journey
that feels measured
by the centimetre.