to turn against its user. The treadmill
fails to warn you of its desire to speed up.
Because it does, in one spectacular burst.
Perhaps there's a race it always wanted to win,
a record to break? It's now or never. You
were merely practice. You try to hang on
to the bars, but a great wind sweeps you off
the rolling hills that only minutes ago
you were climbing so earnestly—one foot
after the other, your timer a modest promise
that all trials are temporary and come to an end.