My heart’s two 
halves are a pair 
of old muddy boots;

enough sole,
I suppose, to 
trudge a few 

more pebbled paths 
of days, more 
leathery gray hours.

I eke out 
translations
into the braille

of uneven breath,
rip-edged rasp
of intake, out-heave,

repetitious pledge,
gain a grip on a 
pedestrian truth: 

the implausible
deniability of 
the end of this life.

Bio: Roy Beckemeyer