I am a ghost of motion, a curve in the air, A sound made of speed, though I'm never quite there. I'm the kiss of the net when the ball passes through, The breath of the blade as it's swung towardyou. I'm the mark on a shoe that is destined to run, The sigh of the wind when the race is begun.

I swallow the rain and the soap from your skin, A dark, hollow throat where the cycles begin. I take what is finished, the used and the old, But clog me with secrets, and watch me unfold. I pull from your energy, leaving you dry, A slow, steady leak as the hours go by.

Along the stairs I creep, a secret path I keep. You grip me tight at night, I while I guide you on your way, up and down everyday and night.

My first is an incorrect plural of a group of males. My second is an expression of mirth, and is known to heal. My whole will get you ten to twenty

My first four, another word for excrement. My last three, an immense, indefinite period of time. Together, a place that may smell of excrement and people may feel like they’ve been there for an immense, indefinite period of time.