The dead feet

You go to the floorboard and the fire,
The door where the dead feet walk in

A mother who looked on at fireplace
And dad who bowed on violin string

And see yourself missing in the pants
Self that was unseeing of its little self

In tiny pants that held your small legs,
As you ran up and down like the moth

In the room, with its new born wings
Fluttering like child’s eyes of disbelief.

(After reading Thomas Hardy’s poem The Self Unseeing)

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