We always seem to have enough socks. They serve a personal purpose that remains somehow unsentimental. Even when a stranger gives you her socks, after a compliment, and they're still warm, there's still less a bond than an
understanding
One of a pair may become lost.
I seem to have enough socks, and barely look at them. And then it struck me this evening that my socks take care of me. Warm, dry feet are not to be taken unseriously.
Poemlike they come in and out of our lives over time; we acquire more
it's quiet about it
the shape
of sadness
it's just
I saw it just now
in three pairs
laid out on my bed
still warm
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