.i“ * ^ / . . . . . ` `~

Laundry that is warm in a basket that is broken.
Everted socks, a null undergarment, a sleeve.
I will again stand deciphering, with warming hands,
These simple, largely unfashionable puzzles,
Making of the warm clean mound a clear tall stack,
Which is the end of what will seem a cycle of soil:
a tale of a toil  — that soiled — and was undone.

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