Shoes came over.
“We’re from storms,” they said.
Various salads produced obscure film stars
as the fucking chandelier unwrote my pig.
Even naked presidents may deter you.

I had detained dead cobblers in advance.
These were professionals.
‘These are professionals,” I said,
fairly faint with my own authority.
Anyone could sense the storms, outside.

But the shoes had flowers. Or other brothers.
They had terrible songs from heaven.
“It’s about the soles.” They said.
You should have seen the cobblers.
Like electric puppets cast in butterfly dust.