Trails… little lines through forests… embrace connections, gather imprints, from hiking boot, the brave flip flop, the weekend tennis shoe. I’m not alone, but, there’s a separateness I can’t deny.
My feet…clunky…bony things…bad negotiators of ground, stumbles into sunlight, with trees as easel, hangs portraits.
Have I ever handled beauty well? My arms seem like slugs. My eyes unreliable. My organs are preconceived plans. I look at my shoes. Such pretty things, such perfect imprints.
I’ve stomped upon dust, steered around mud. These paths tug upon my pulse, an ache. Even weeds are handsome anarchists. The soles of my shoes have been manufactured especially for this moment.
Yes, you’re on the trail. Somewhere ahead of me, sometimes behind. The way you run lures me. I recognize the shape of your naked foot. I think I’m in love with your lost.
I drink your coldest water. My teeth throb. I’m wild, if only for a speck of time. I pull off my socks.