In the window the recent dictates its speech angled on a beaming ramp of plexiglass: so difficult to go in, remove your old favorites, align them under your chair, hoping no one will notice the darkened scuffs, the flattened arches, the sides wet with snow. Here the clerk comes with the box, breaking its tissued seal, and you hope your long toes will slip like sweet muscari into the sculpted tips, cooled by the clean insides, lulled into a perfect blue fit. And they do, nearly. So nearly they are more perfect for it, fragrant from newness, neatening your plans. Under their faces, thin bones stir, refracting radiance. At first, wearing these is something like a refusal. With the first step outside their smooth bottoms chew and exclaim — not for the world — touching it reluctantly. Perhaps it begins to rain a little, and they turn cold. Or you kick the door on your way in and leave a bruise. Or sigh while taking them off, blistered cloud from those hard seams articulating its rise, rosy, and sad, noting its source.