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they’ve heard souls and soles

from time to time

become worn out; it is in the literature—

not the curious kind on cheap paper, folded expertly

as if reincarnated from naughty origami,

lightly stamped in subpar typeface, polylinguistic warrantees


they’ve seen abominations

but found gendered gods in every place;

baffled by the lack of sacred, in some

threadbare configurations

haunting domestic thresholds

they found

the most curious of all:


straddling a spectrum

of size, make, model, color

bare or hardly visible

were the keepers,

somewhere near the door


and to which of these səʊls

do they account

for all the fleshy floors

left beneath

all left behind?