Feet Are No Lovers

Feet are no lovers, only friends.

Flesh touches flesh too nearly, hands

Can interlock with meaning, indeed,

Our very eyebrows may secede

Against the heart's repose; whereas our feet

Like four white pigeons meet,

Scarcely indulging in caresses,

Flying in happy intricacies,

Fond, yet reserved as children are,

And gently ignorant of the war

The other nimbler members wage.

It is as though they kept that age

When they were put to servile use,

And being hid away in shoes,

And knowing little, seeing less,

Have kept their childhood's happiness.