I have my father’s feet: rotten
roots of a leafless tree.
Chipped as the old block,
they’re medieval potatoes, the warts
in a Breughel. Bosch’s hell,
complete with carbuncles. An Archimboldo
made of toes. Rough enough
to pumice concrete.
Calcined with tripping over
what I’d rather forget.
Heavy weather and its dregs
of tea, a seismologist’s
map: all my stupidities
scored to chalky matter.

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