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This poem is taken from PN Review 234, Volume 43 Number 4, March - April 2017.

Two Poems Becky Cullen
Opening

My shoes come sleeping in a box.
I hear them breathe inside their tissue-paper book,
the sound of rippling leaves.

The sole is thick alright, like a slab of black tripe; 
the toes are tapered and stopped inside,
adding another inch, at least, in length.

Who knows I spade my feet? Kick trees
...


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