Reworking the Threads

Old cotton knee-Lenths smell; an old book of poetry smell, Unseen socks between the matrass and the ground floor of nowhere, where discarded apparel through the ages, molders unread. Daily we wash the stains off our words, once in a while we recover them from a closeted library of mismatched leftovers, mental Himelick Maneuvers, unclog threads of meaning. Recuse the becalmed. where they wallow untouched by time and just as funky as summer armpits, yet all that bookish residue is retrievable, It can be made to walk upright, as if it still had legs.