These were all colourless
These were all colourless. You saw them in the long darkness, each with a prick to your independence. You left them behind to comment on you, but, you were and you are absent. You saw a pair of canvas shoes, slightly worn, one next to the other in careful opposition with their toes against the threshold of a door but not entering the room. The door is ajar and darkness amidst light infused steam aways over them. You pick them up, they are filled with cotton. The air is wet. Walking all night in damp shoes your feet grow soft mashing into a trail of grey paste and pulpy paper. You drop card after card until your entire stack of scraps and their borrowed insinuations disintegrate behind your head. Your shoes, your papers, your feet, float into pulpy back waters.
Your feet are caked in plaster. It penetrates the cracks and fissures when it is viscous. When it dies it hardens into chips that break your feet into pieces. You dip your feet into the black sea water and the plaster trails out in sinewy clouds of silky dust and briny blood and is gone into the unknowable fullness. The water is taken up on the hot nights when the night sweat cools the sky as it disappears. Your punished feet dry, giving over the foamy destruction of your flesh to the cycle that lays clouds across the city, over the bodies of land and shut away empty bodies that lay just above the high night tide. It effloresces and folds up into a circular cloud around each water drop crater tossed down from the water running across your coat. You fold the collar up high when you walk beneath trees so the water cannot run down your neck, beneath your hair and untouchable betwixt your shoulderblades.