heel against wood. this is a sauna. so wood is hot. heel becomes hot. no one else there. no one to feel my heat. I have been hot alone before. I have been so hot the mind begins to drift. there is a beginning to a serial poem in that drift. there is a joy to know the heat creates a word the heart hasn't met. the word enters my heel. I will tell no one. when the word swims to my mouth I will spit it into the shower. the cold shower that ends the hour. if it sinks into the drain I will forget as I towel my parts. but if it sticks to a toenail I'll bring it home.
sometimes poems come from shaking my feet. but I don't reveal that to professors. if they knew that they'd wire me requests to lick my feet. I'm getting old. I can't hold joy in buckets anymore.
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