Inside the Shoe

I found a shoe. It was unclipped. I ran after people saying, ‘Is this your shoe? Did you wear it?’ Everyone looked at me blankly. They were thinking, ‘She knows not what the shoe is.’
This shoe is something that doesn’t fit anywhere.
This shoe is made for no men.
This shoe is open. Unclipped.
This shoe is a downfall.
This shoe fell from the trees.
I found a shoe. It wasn’t dirty. It wasn’t clean either. I placed it in bushes, with labels, photographs. Asking who it belonged to. It was tiny and black. It was high and red. It was a dreamy shoe.
-I have changed my face, said the shoe.
-Have you? I replied.
I took the shoe. Then I replaced it. I tried to slip it onto passers-by. They kicked me away. I tried to make it fit onto others. I tried to fit it onto their birth.
I tried to make it fit onto the pavements and make it contour.
I watched the shoe turn over as the lorries were face-wind.
This shoe is a bridge.
This shoe is a down-low eye.
It has made feet move to places. It questions reality. It is another path-tremble.
When I tried to buckle the shoe, it resisted and its tongue was quiet.