Lie down, you are horizontal.
Stand up, you are not.
I wanted my fate to be human.
Like a perfume
that does not choose the direction it travels,
that cannot be straight or crooked, kept out or kept.
Yes, No, Or
— a day, a life, slips through them,
taking off the third skin,
taking off the fourth.
The logic of shoes becomes at last simple,
an animal question, scuffing.
Old shoes, old roads —
the questions keep being new ones.
Like two negative numbers multiplied by rain
into oranges and olives.