Ἕκτορα δ', ὡς ἐνόησεν, ἕλε τρόμος· οὐδ' ἄρ' ἔτ' ἔτλη 

αὖθι μένειν, ὀπίσω δὲ πύλας λίπε, βῆ δὲ φοβηθείς· 

—Iliad 22.136-7

Always we say how, if we change our scenery,

we’ll fix something; all will change utterly.

Always, like Hektor, we run to our next destination.

And always, godlike Achilles gets there first.

How many times, Hektor, did you run around

the Dardanian gates looking for shelter

under Troy’s well-built walls thinking Surely

from here above they’ll save me from below—?

Because that’s how many times Achilles

got there first, aimed his copper spear at you,

and sent you running towards where he’ll meet you

next—where you’ll run from next.

It’s like how, in a dream, you can’t catch who’s fleeing;

or how, until the alarm blares, you can’t escape

the stomp of boots getting closer. How, Hektor,

did you escape your lot so many times?

That is what I would like to know tonight

as I go running elsewhere, my heart

unswayed by home, by friends, by family;

believing that, when I arrive there, all will change utterly.