Four pairs of shoes hang on your fingers,
Laces sewn through pale nails, like winter,
Sweeping the floor, tripping some toes,
You’re not hanging by threads;
the strings are hanging off you.
Step your arms to the orchestra beat,
Arms run a fleet of strong grit and sole,
Double knot the applause of the world-
that streams down your spine, back to the herd.
Four pairs of shoes hang on my fingers,
Bare feet on streets, blushed toes, like spring,
Swinging my lanyards, the keys to some life,
I’m just holding the strings;
they never hold me.