Sands from deserts,
creep in through the soles;
Burn the skin of the passenger.
Spiders creep across the floor.
Eating away the dust of the day before.
Eight-legged moth balls.
Carrying away previously felt pitfalls.
Holding their feet,
but never their hands.
Feeling the cracks in the sidewalks,
like the breaking of backs,
wearing an old coat of oil.
Tied only once.
Tucked in the tongue.
Grow up, grow out.
“My god, how the memories
stung the back of my eyelids”
They’ve seen it all,
but sit quietly and waiting.
They were there every time,
and were never, ever, complaining.
Locked away in a closet,
the golden dirt of an age.
On the ocean floor,
I found mountains,
and oceanographic topography.
As old shoes,
with holes in the seams,
we trace the lines,
of basic cartography.
