Boots
In the South there are old
Graves and ancient oaks
That hang with the beards
Of past men. Below them
I walk as if in a coliseum
Of sages.
They await q u e s t i o n s.
I wonder if in my pockets
Of dust I have the right
Questions.
They are watchful
Over the graves here,
Strange graves, with stones
Where the feet could be.
Why do the graves today
No longer have the boot
Stones? Where have the legs
Of humanity gone?
The wind blows
Arousing the beards’
Words which speak
Through the thinned leaves;
“Where are your legs?”
They ask. “I don’t know”,
I say, “I’ve always been
Floating. Where in the world
Does on find the ground?”
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