Lost Socks

by Mark

I was lost
that one sock
stumbled out into the abyss
forgotten. Failures,
burnt-toast smog,
flood a room in
my stomach.

Intestines were fears,
fired with the lust
of lovers licking from
faucets not turned off all
the way. Then she
and fit in

the equal
sign, finding all the tumbles
of lint left
by straggling socks, who
crawl through absent passages –
no longer claiming to be

Mark J Blu