The logic of shoes
Like Two Negative Numbers Multiplied By Rain
Lie down, you are horizontal.
Stand up, you are not.
I wanted my fate to be human.
Like a perfume that does not choose the direction it travels,
that cannot be straight or crooked, kept out or kept.
Yes, No, Or
— a day, a life, slips through them,
taking off the third skin,
taking off the fourth.
The logic of shoes becomes at last simple,
an animal question, scuffing.
Old shoes, old roads —
the questions keep being new ones.
Like two negative numbers multiplied by rain
into oranges and olives.
For the last few years I’ve been on Knopf’s Poem-A-Day email list. Every day in April a poem floats into my inbox and then, May first the poems stop and I miss them. This year I thought I’d share my favorites.