Song of My Socks

Day breaks on the spellbrow –

Remain, dream –

On his brown, downy chest – just so

The past can roll around behind

Where light cracks at the lashes.

Beloved by his gaze –

I was fat on his eyes those butter pecans,

Chamomile kisses, in the Days of Plenty.

Hunger burns in me like a furnace,

Hoarfrost on the pillow; it is a

Winter season of silence and this is the

Song of my socks that I stitch in the morning

Word by word I darn it whole.

Now I am too needy to throw out my dreams –

Solitude has made me resourceful.