|Walking in Your Shoes
Planted in the forest of my nerves,
you flower back to me, diversified.
Our ciphers entwine, caduceus-like, determined
if not to move within us, then to flush our motion
from a mirrored effort. One turns on this, one turns
on that, as if precise in one's multiplicity, one
could remain a singular image
of the luscious machinery of
exclamation, and still keep silent. The laces are a
kind of surge to come undone, or tripwires to the thought
of stopping. Anxiety is
analysis with respect to the nails under-
foot. Tempting to put something else there,
dune grass or esplanade, but if no footfall finds it?
You will no doubt rule certain things
inadmissible, such as the slipper that fits like a bottle,
the shoe that ties like a book. The lace
of hands, cut from the same words, to
grasp, to take and twist into a modest loop
of coming and going. Tangerines: tangents
peeled by dimensions we live in constructed
by hunger. Slip on your shoes and button
your coat. Walk into the night where nothing
remains but the worlds of our separate gaits, written
in the steps of their first clear words.
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