Shoes
My shoes were afterthought and intimation, laces undone.
They touched the ground in ways I never knew.
My Feet: The Movie came too soon to a theater nearby
though they never walked on water or the emptiness
of space, passing out of the atmosphere,
what I was never able to say, or the land where
the dead and living embrace among leaves, so-called words
and uncountable chairs creaking and rocking.
The marked travelers lost, eating their shoes, feeding bellies
of desperation with worn out leather, what was gained?
Holding inside the weeks of arctic permafrost, Amazon
mud on fire, limbos of ecstasy, briefly everlasting.
Before my boots pointed suddenly upward,
God was a mini-bullet who spiraled through my chest
on his way to another unfinished friend.
The new technology proclaimed its dominion,
sweet moment of my Antietam, new nation ready
to tread another footprint upon its blossom
after stained blossom of uncountable skins.
Skin, skins, press yours now to mine, named or nameless,
with more wildflower meadows than forgetting, barefoot
or in heels that will not come undone on cobblestones,
washed out curbsides beyond repair or mulberries, red,
crushed, and littering the dumbstruck ground.