Squatting at the rack 
in the Store of the Salvation 
Army, putting on, one after one,
these shoes strangers have died from, I discover 
the eldershoes of my feet, that take my feet 
as their first feet, clinging 
down to the least knuckle and corn.

And I walk out now, 
in dead shoes, in the new light, 
on the steppingstones 
of someone else's wandering, 
a twinge 
in this foot or that saying 
turn or stay or take
forty-three giant steps 
backwards, frightened 
I may already have lost
the way: the first step, the Crone
who scried the crystal said, shall be 
to lose the way.

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