They carry us: feet.

ankled by calves, beclumsied by shoes,

boots, whatever else

we might horn to their anchorage, glove

onto shy toes. They are at best

when bare: carpet-boats. Wading through

rugs, skaters of linoleum; touching tendrils of cold

grass, squeezing with sand;

fired by the black burning

of tarmac in July, the pavement’s furnaced slab;

shocked by seawater, the blue

cleansing of iced nerves. Stand

and it happens: the earth’s coloured shoots

reaching out, up through you,

the sensations of real things,

the terrain, land.

 

 

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