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.
Monday, January 05, 2015
After a busy day when confronting admin
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