Mornings, he steps out of the mango tree
that splits the road. At night, lamps
of all strung on seeing how he goes back
into the tree flicker and he disappears
in the briefest dark. The wind is having
itself in my milk. I convinced her so
over two week nights: I am staying
out of the blanket, I am risking you.
After milk, I hear what the old man sings.
Of shoes, she says. Of deluge he found in an oversized
that walk the road like a man
he could not. Of smaller he met in a nightclub
when disco stole the legs out of joined love,
how he hurt his feet, ruined the tight shoe.
He would walk the world. O, he would.
But the leaves shield him now
and cannot tie into a fit,
a second nature, a delivering shoe.