My shoes come sleeping in a box.
I hear them breathe inside the tissue-paper book,
the sound of rippling leaves.
The sole is thick alright, like a slab of black tripe;
the toes are tapered and stopped inside,
adding another inch – at least – in length.
Who knows I spade my feet? Kick trees
until the bark flakes, then blame the deer?
Who knows I use my shoes to root?
These are wild shoes
with points like noses, keen like foxes,
the leather creased like ears.