The sock


A single cotton sock caresses the foot.
Its other seems missing in the closet.
It seems your leg pairs do not match,
Except in their holes, similar-shaped
At the toe, in its curve and asymptote
Where the toe tends to a shoe’s curve
But will meet it only at its dark infinity.
But the wind in their holes is the same
In the way it tickles  the toe in the hole.

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