Oh for the unknown feet
Fresh, unshoed callous-free
Soft to see
The puttied earth asqueeze
Between a hand of toes

Would then walking be
Full with feels and grass-roots sights
And run so feather-light
As to fly one leg at a time?

Would the virgin thorn
Or unwashed bottle chip
Cut so deep I'd forget to clot
Softly naked
But not fleeing from
The Man who walks the evening.