Whole hole
Strange does it seem, the tangled mess
of edges frayed at the seam, that all start with the same
single thread that tears up our clothes
unmistakenly baring the skin on our bones.
It is clairvoyance leading me right to the home
of sweet sweating soles cast in holes that seem whole.
And so strange does it seem, a hole that is whole,
what I deem as frayed seems stronger at the seams,
and where it starts is unknown,
the single thread ironically the whole,
unmistakenly showing the tremor of toes
as they tap in the grass and climb on poles
but for now they sit solemn, awaiting a needle
whose eye can thread their paradox.
I almost missed it,
If it were not for the checkered socks.