I am in the shoes of someone who steps away from the page.
Ink stays still.
Life does not.
These shoes move closer.
Into the noise.
Into the bazaars.
Into the movement.
Hands searching for vegetables.
Voices mix.
Things’re happening.
No plan holds it.
No line contains it.
Life’s happening.
Not from thinking.
From being there.
And later,
when the hands meet lemons,
yellow
shoes
be.