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| Walking in Your Shoes Chris Glomski |
Planted in the forest of my nerves, you flower back to me, diversified. Our ciphers entwine, caduceus-like, determined if not to move within us, then to flush our motion from a mirrored effort. One turns on this, one turns on that, as if precise in one's multiplicity, one could remain a singular image of the luscious machinery of exclamation, and still keep silent. The laces are a kind of surge to come undone, or tripwires to the thought of stopping. Anxiety is analysis with respect to the nails under- foot. Tempting to put something else there, dune grass or esplanade, but if no footfall finds it? You will no doubt rule certain things inadmissible, such as the slipper that fits like a bottle, the shoe that ties like a book. The lace of hands, cut from the same words, to grasp, to take and twist into a modest loop of coming and going. Tangerines: tangents peeled by dimensions we live in constructed by hunger. Slip on your shoes and button your coat. Walk into the night where nothing remains but the worlds of our separate gaits, written in the steps of their first clear words. |
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