Sock

The failure of this sock. Right now is a perfect moment to fall apart.
As any moment tries to, blissfully, with neither desire nor plan.
I can’t find the show that this foot was made for. I walk,
Again, and accidentally fly, but cannot see this. And think:
Ah, here is a perfect trap for my ancient heart. Once more embodied.
Lost in this this silveresque vortex whose name is the same as mind, or my own
But spelled in a dream, with letters that never will exist.

And so to tremble once more at the insistence of a clock
Forged from the lost hearts of mice and bumblebees. Their grave and holy
Necessities. I am yours, but no one comes home. The home is empty.
Meanwhile, the grave is swarming with people preparing for a party,
All wrapped in clothes that forget their actual figurations. To the
Race, the dead men wander. Readying themselves for a gunshot.

But what comes is silent flowers, exploding perfectly, falling apart
As frail as the last whisper of a moon that will not rise and yet
Is the future of our dreams, our loves, our losses and the grand
Comedies which boast a severity far beyond any rational measure.
This sock is destroyed, but I adore it. And cannot bring myself
To do anything else. Ever. Again.