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Ode to My Boots.

 Long hooves removed, sweat-stewed and leather-redolent. Foot
hovels, laces crosshatched up the fronts, tag ends untied, orphaned
parentheses, speechless tongues, heels and soles rounded by miles. Black
eggs from which pale birds have emerged that step by step had flown
wingless through the world in them. The pale intermediaries, the socks,
fat woolen blossoms reborn as buds in the pure soil of waiting in the
drawer, sheaths to be entered for the entering of the shaft, into the
supple vamp, to be embraced by the welt, swaddled in the gussets and
bound there, and bound also into the world, which accepts the boots as
the boots accept the feet, earth which accepts the prints of the boots
as the boots accept the prints the feet leave in them, miles of motion
memorialized as stillness. My hand reaching inside each boot reads the
history of my walking there, which is nowhere and anywhere: ten
tentacles of pivot and balance; the two balls of power; the arches,
synecdoches of a million steps; and the heels of transition and
restraint. Fossils of perambulation, life and death masks of departure
and return, blunt destinationless etchings of boot memory, these shed,
heavy husks: years in them, though they have no notion of where they
have been, and where, with luck, they may yet take me. 
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Author:Wrigley, Robert
Publication:Prairie Schooner
Article Type:Poem
Date:Mar 22, 2011
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