When I my last burst of gut to a bandstand or similar I’ll never know it as such; never rate the pace of my subsequent resting and who’d have the heart to tell me? The ceramic clack of wine that follows will be unimpeached, left to swell and sliver like a monotone toad I carry from place to place at nothing more than a canter. Set aside, the cause of which - in anger, or reluctance, or precarious joy - would be missed, unchecked; the panted breaths unremarked and left to fall into holes dug for spring bulbs. My hand will be held - or vice versa when the race is run - and breath (hopefully) holds a substance, not a demand for urgent subsistence. Who has won? My memory is faint and yet I know it wasn’t me.