Planning a Summer Without You

Planning a Summer Without You

It doesn’t matter now only that the way

I walk makes the side of my feet dry – dry enough

to crack – dry enough to almost bleed

and in between need creams – need cool sheets

need out-of-the-sheets bleeding.  Even before

I decided I wasn’t coming my old shoes

waited, (they’ve been in tides, canyons)

their gaping mouths open as the dead.  They’d waited

all winter, craved the old crack jerked seaweed

makes when it is crunched under

such aimless walks as I’d take every morning

looking for God knows what all, solace

probably, and not.  More I bet at Lazarus

and some talk I make up between

he and Jesus, a quiet argument of need

and whose then would be the deepest.  Feet

with the thinnest skin between the rock

and the sand the boat’s wood the kitchen 

synagogue latrine you name it all the lift

and fall – who is my Lazarus?  Yours?  Who

do you try to raise from the dead by walking

while the weight of your fall

is rubbed off on the rubber cloth leather nothing

what do you hesitate to crush (do you hesitate) and do

you even know the skittering but for

the hermit crab who’s taken up with trash: a child’s

doll’s head hollowed out, the one eye

winking with every arm lift and wave

coming on to whatever happens

to sashay to step boots or bare mindful or not.