The roar was still in the air, the rolling rumble
of the crowd. This was the breathless world. Vigor and
mettle came rolling down streets and turning corners, busting around
corners, seismic tides of brawn, with jubilant nimbleness flashing past,
amid shouts and shrill of whistles, skimming, whipping past, otherworldly
ease in the glistening light. It was not a street
anymore but a world, a time and space of corporal
glee and near collision. Ben Shirazi was north through asphalt
and mud, and spectators agog stood by holding towels for
the runners sheathed in sweat and musk. Ben ran, unflinching.
Paraphrases from the novel Falling Man by Don Delillo and the poem “The Feast of Stephen” by Anthony Hecht.