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.
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