There is a sock on the ground
a brief reminder that somewhere
a foot is afoot without a sock;
a foot in intimate discourse
with a leg, ambulating perhaps
a body, or then again, perchance
hooked supine over a flexed
Like this one.
A sock, a foot, a leg,
a body, a child
running, perhaps wildly
one-socked through the sprinklered
yard, a hilariously independent
half-drawn from a single cell
of my donation.
Grown to this sock-size
from the ingestation
of the fruit of the soil
and the sweat of my brow.
A sock, disconnected from the whole
is meaningless, but the whole─now that─
is the whole of my world.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem