Laces woven but untied, dusty cords
like worms in dried silt.
The slow turn of a worn shoe.
What is this world of Dick, Jane, Sally said?
The sand packed dune fills the shoe
and spills in slow linear flow
over the back stitched line
of a well worn heel.
I tremor in fever of memory past.
My mother in mercy said,
"Shoo it away."
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