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.