Feet: I have washed out my feet and am writing this post with the toes. The wrong shoes. But I have the information and that is why I have to stay. I have to make people listen to me or it will keep raining. The weather sees us and sends the rain.
The first to go will be the Converse.
The red-soled Louboutins.
The wrong tights.
All of the shoes in a university.
On feet always being wet: it travels up the legs and spine to the spleen, the ancients call it the seat of dampness. Depressing the three-mile point in the shin dispels it, or something does. The feet eventually wear away.
The first to go will be the university.
The wrong tights.
The red-souled Louboutin.
All of the conversations in a universe.
The walk begins in the snow, cleanness
melting our lips under the arch. The snow packs
the spaces between blades of grass but melts on tar.
Under the second arch, across the jail bridge, across
one road then another, under the third arch.
A gold path leads past silver globes to
a breath of cool wood
overleaning the ripe river.
No snow now, but distant hills faded with it.
Finally down past the dead rat with its wet hair spiked
like a child, sharp feet splayed,
and across the other bridge (press
one gloved palm on the stone
then to the other palm, tight) and back.
The first to go will be the Converse.
The red-soled Louboutins.
The wrong tights.
All of the shoes in a university.
On feet always being wet: it travels up the legs and spine to the spleen, the ancients call it the seat of dampness. Depressing the three-mile point in the shin dispels it, or something does. The feet eventually wear away.
The first to go will be the university.
The wrong tights.
The red-souled Louboutin.
All of the conversations in a universe.
The walk begins in the snow, cleanness
melting our lips under the arch. The snow packs
the spaces between blades of grass but melts on tar.
Under the second arch, across the jail bridge, across
one road then another, under the third arch.
A gold path leads past silver globes to
a breath of cool wood
overleaning the ripe river.
No snow now, but distant hills faded with it.
Finally down past the dead rat with its wet hair spiked
like a child, sharp feet splayed,
and across the other bridge (press
one gloved palm on the stone
then to the other palm, tight) and back.