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Found Poetry 457

12/16/20

if socks could think what would they say
their whole existence pulled up and down each day
bodies stretched like bones of cotton
cracks start small like holes in buttons
persuaded dirty they line up in a white dye race
but step out the wash and dry machines smiling with a blank face
folded they find half of their family missing
now foot soldiers who consider cold feet a blessing

This poem was created from Sylvia Plath's collected works. Click here to get a book of Plath's poems.

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