Shoes without socks
Shoes nailed into bone,
I walk past the butchery with a hopeful empty cup.
My footprints like ectoplasm
I watch you feather
invisible steps atop the treads.
Follow me in between planes of glass on my way to the oxygen store.
My shadow as
full as a suitcase, we wheel between
leather markets, eyes glazed over, and four-legged—
like a pull-apart spider sealed in a child’s mason jar.
The carriages around the city don’t have whips,
and that makes it sadder for the horses to me.
I miss bumping into you on accident and apologizing.
When did I become the beast heaving a cart without seats? I can’t see you in my sleep so I run my fingers through bowls of milk
so you’ll feel me making the bed. The horses whisper through my window in the dark, praying for sharper teeth, and thinner necks.