Each thing I do I rush through so I can do
    something else. In such a way do the days pass -
    a blend of stock car racing and the never
    ending building of a gothic cathedral.
    Through the windows of my speeding car, I see
    all that I love falling away: books unread,
    jokes untold, landscapes unvisited. And why?
    What treasure do I expect in my future?
    Rather it is the confusion of childhood
    loping behind me, the chaos in the mind,
    the failure chipping away at each success.
    Glancing over my shoulder I see its shape
    and so move forward, as someone in the woods
    at night might hear the sound of approaching feet
    and stop to listen, then, instead of silence
    he hears some creature trying to be silent.
    What else can he do but run? Rushing blindly
    down the path, stumbling, struck in the face by sticks;
    the other ever closer, yet not really
    hurrying or out of breath, teasing its kill.
			
				"Pursuit", by Stephen Dobyns