This poem is taken from PN Review 234, Volume 43 Number 4, March - April 2017.
Two Poems
Opening
My shoes come sleeping in a box.
I hear them breathe inside their tissue-paper book,
the sound of rippling leaves.
The sole is thick alright, like a slab of black tripe;
the toes are tapered and stopped inside,
adding another inch, at least, in length.
Who knows I spade my feet? Kick trees
...
My shoes come sleeping in a box.
I hear them breathe inside their tissue-paper book,
the sound of rippling leaves.
The sole is thick alright, like a slab of black tripe;
the toes are tapered and stopped inside,
adding another inch, at least, in length.
Who knows I spade my feet? Kick trees
...
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