My feet hum when I see you. My feet play the symbols while at work. They try to hit the sky when we play.
My feet dig the earth in the summer. The feel the tree’s low base. My feet feel the leaves fall in the autumn. They sing a cord for each within their place.
My feet sing a song while in the shower. They have better words than I. Sometimes they will strain on the high notes. My feet they wear pajamas in the winter. The warmth they hold is the rhythm that we danced to.
The clompers are not just the single twilight.
The trill is not the only bird.
If we sing of the sad swamp forever,
our feet will sink until we reach the bottom.
Our knees will follow not long after. My feet will feel the tickle of the worms. Our bellybutton will quiver at the coldness.
Our necks will strain to keep our heads above the alto. My feet will try to find an end. Only some of us will know how this was started. But the trail dips our of sight–right along that bend.
Once we sink we’ll know that we’re forgotten. The shallow song will fade into the wind. If we could run forever my feet wouldn’t get tired, but my lungs continue to be just on the mend.
My ears are filled up with your singing sorrow.
My lungs up with all the sludge we’ve made. Now I see what you’ve been singing lately, and sometimes we’re making the grade.