It is perhaps

A modern day Roanoke.

(Although this colony is shrouded in significantly less mystery)

(And much less alleged tragedy)

A wicker basket, containing

This buffet of buttons and belts,

This cacophony of socks.  

Inclined to simply subsist in the presence of

The persistent existence

Of so many

Mundane sundries.

However,

At one point,

The socks were cautiously awaiting general passivity.

To be

&

To not to be.

(Worn)

Tucked away

&

Turned inside out,

Like

Inverted caterpillars

In cocoons made of wool.

Sleeping.

Sleeping.

Resting atop

Pretentious suspenders

&

Discarded

Price tags.

A regular bed of leaves.

But now,

The legion of socks

Have been separated

(For the second time)

From the ranks of various other garments,

And  now lay stuffed between

The grungy reaches

Of

The

Side

By

Side

Sister appliances.

(That are more antonym than synonym)

From beneath the depths,

From between the rumbling machines,

The socks watch

A slow world unfold

In shadows.

Delicate sweaters

Hang

Like majestic banners,

Before a colorful battle.

Dancing slowly

Like elegant royalty,

When a door opens

&

Retreating when it closes.

 Floating

Miles

&

Miles

Above,

Gradually growing more  and more stale than the

Already artificial Ficus,

With each passing minute.

These sweaters

&

Shirts

These sleeves and

Smocks,

Flow like a procession

Into the brighter closet light,

Carried by accomplished hands,

Into an apparent palace of reverent apparel.

And after

Every third

Or

Fourth

Cycle,

(Which translates into six or seven moons)

A broom handle or

Miscellaneous garage-tool will

Forge a path,

Guided by a now aggravated hand,

To retrieve them,

To resuscitate them.

To put them in their place.

(With the other underwear)

Sifting through pyramids

That were assembled with hot air

&

Integrated with elements from

Both

Needles

&

Haystacks

&

 Various elements of other debris so fine,

That the very dust of diamonds,

Would revert to coal.

And then to black again.