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Found Poetry 457
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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