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52 Cross-Country The kid running last as the team heads through town during afterschool practice, so far behind all the others he’s lost them completely, in his own time zone, his own ecosystem. They’re at the halfway already, the drive-thru Dunkin’ Donuts by the Unitarian church that’s been closed for a year. They’ll make the turn en masse, like some Christo running fence, head back toward the gym, pass him on the way, say they ordered him a mocha Dunkaccino, the kid still running to catch them, the one with no art, no rhythm, his arms swinging sideways into the wind, running like a drunk holding onto a tree, running toward his father and away from him too, hunched in his running, Quasimodo, contrapposto, running in his agony, stitch in his side, Pheidippides at Marathon, or pure St. Sebastian, his pincushion heart, or sweet John Keats running up the Spanish Steps, heart in his hand, coughing his lungs out for his love, Fanny Brawne, the kid running in water, running in molasses, running like a bastard, the kid we all know who is never going to get there, running for his life right into the wall, the last shall be first, the best kid of all. ...

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