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Most days are like stray socks
in a corner chasing forgetfulness—
watching the dust bunnies
dance the can-can at the Quarter Round.
They drink Sazerac, Old-Fashioneds and Sidecars;
stagger, pass out in the filth of their soiled
crumples, and wake unremembered
with their yarn-ends and cotton pills exposed;

but occasionally, a toe slips
into its own event horizon,
crawls its gusset through its cuff and curls
itself like a time traveler
cozy in a wormhole,
where its present
gathers into its past—turns
its heel into instep into sole, and nestles
thickly into folds; where it rights
itself: extrudes backwards
through tucks and wads, ribs and years, reverses
its flow and drips. As if
what is today’s has always
been yesterday’s, only waiting
for its gold-toed child.

First published in the May issue of The Centrifugal Eye (2010)