Directly on the Selvage

V. For all intents & purposes, we will start in the middle.

Albeit strange to live alone,  it does have it’s promises.

A square in the hole, where food & trash may go. I usually let it all go, where the socks disappear into the terra firma,

beyond the dryer.

My socks are always shell-pink. I save them closely, until I can’t anymore. There’s a far better place for them, where ransacks of things that aren’t lonely, until you leave them alone, go.

like I said before, there are dividends, to being alone.

I don’t know how many times I secured or procured these perfect, red, not crimson, but pearl dotted socks. The next time I would acquire them, would hang in the in between sighs, between turns in the heat;

before the dryer would,

slink the jewels, straight off the cuff,

or the heal,

like time would erase their identity,

in a heated argument,

without mentioning why the fight began,

in the first place.

Before this,

They were all there.

In perfect pairs.

I never asked where she got them,

Because truthfully,

I didn’t really care.

IV.

My Aunt developed this perfect timing for these perfect socks to appear in my life. They would show up, unaltered, without any suggestion of leaving, in a bright red box,

with tinsel on top.

Like it was Christmas, but it wasn’t. 

I said so many times how much I loved them, which seemed to embroider them with words on the spot, and a bright red box, would show up,

without a lock.

without a knock.

the spotted, pearl/diamond like socks would show up for me, 

again & again.

Without warning.

I have started running out of room, which is why, the room beyond the dryer must be

EXPANDING

all the time.

Like a renovated duplex

terra cotta

Or townhouse,

Or goldenrod, light leaked flowers,

in bloom.

IV.

I’ve been to that place beyond the dryer you know. The constitution of material is miraculous,

jade

amaranth

coral

cerise;

nonchalantly suggesting their piles, widths, arches, seams & sides, stretches, stitches

like directly on the selvage,

like you are supposed to, salvaging piles & piles of missing socks, that weren’t missing at all.

They were perfect.

And exactly as they should be.

until they were gone.

IIV.

When you enter into the necromancy of charming piles, beyond the dryer, in the further, you must know your place. This is a perfect place, that requires nothing short of a miracle on your part.

A miracle to be kind. To sit upon these locks,

like the princess & the pea,

and sew your way into a triumphant finish,

Where you have accurately put the socks back together. The ones whom have lost their square heals, pearls & diamonds.

I know it is dark, but there is a moon inside the further. A wonderful moon, made of crimson georgette, and it hangs like a sweet melting orb

over the clout.

When you sit on this moon, please see the instructions for aligning said socks. One on top of the other.

I. Engage them, find what finesses their inseams.

II. Acquire them a mate, that is the perfect opposite, but the same, nonetheless.

III. Check for ridges in the stitches.

IV. Ask them what their purpose for being found is.

V. A song of sweet nothings will do.

VI. Red or white, night light, or shade. 

Ask them that.

Before you curl them into a ball, look at what you have done, to create such a thing.

A beautiful comfort within the silence of the darkness of the further.

A perfect pair brought back from the perfect place. 

Beyond the dryer.

it will seam like a small feat at first,

but question yourself not,

as merino wool, that has been sewn, sang to, engaged, married to its half,

couldn’t possibly have come from anywhere but the further. 

You have done well, and everything you could,

until you stop

the dryer.

VIII.

Quickly begin again, as clouds will only form outside your window, but never, in the further. It only hangs the moon, so luminescence, and shimmer,

can shine brightly over the hills

of socks waiting to be laid, but already in their perfect, position.

She’ll pink.

VII. 

I know what you’re thinking.

What if some of these socks, want to be alone?

I thought there were perks, to living alone.

You promised.

I did promise. Here it is:

VIII.

There is another room behind another door in another area within the otherness of the place beyond the dryer.

This is where the unmarried socks lie.

Something seams to happen, to the mid calf & the crew

The mute 

That don’t speak &

That barely cover the toes;

That it may be certain why the choice is to live in the room where the singularity dwell.

To roll them is to barely see them,

And they always turn in the heat of the dryer,

After the bleach 

That was accidental

Has cast them to be the same color as 

The pearls that once hung from 

The ankles of the 

Socks that have gotten married again, already.

They were all pink, remember?

Well they WERE, all pink.

But change happens.

An especially pleasing 

Plangi and tritik,

A batik jumputan 

For the cotton mutes,

That were always a bit too unique 

To really,

Stay the same

As the way

They came.

But in the night of the further, when the rayon 

Flageolet moon

Hangs brightly & insights the cotton to dance 

& blanch the plangi through their insteps with pearls spurting out because it’s so hot 

And the heat turns in on itself

Until you see nothing but a vast wasteland

Of newly dismembered knee highs 

Remember that nothing short of a miracle was needed,

On your part 

In order to get everything back

In order

With the stacks lying, one on top of the other,

Unless they have moved into the further

Further, beyond the hot hot heat

Underneath the silence,

Of a nacreous moon.

A full blown,

volcanic,

mustard & cornflower,

Solar, eclipse.