With my eyes blurring on a book of maps, my feet are miles away at the sofa's end, and the wrinkled slopes of instep and heel blossom into distant mountains. I must be high above the earth in a plane, observing the blue-veined streams and knobby formations, and wondering who before me has explored this terrain. Even as I sleep, feet are awake to the present.
Feet never ask why, never refuse a break, never expect to go to any great height.
Feet are pretty content in Pete's Pretty Good Sneakers, the unsung heroes of our time. For instance, take that stone by the guard rail over there. And if the plant were a bean, perhaps I eat each pod, feeling the rightness of it, and one day this whole stone will be inside me and I speak from prior knowledge of generations of stones lodged in my gall bladder, the knowledge that I too will be ground in the dark gizzard of the world.