Socks

I'd say
they're sundried tomato

in the gossamer greyblue
in dreams delicate as bone china
do not shatter
do not shatter

winking above the moss and the river
beneath latent indigo
will it be tomato?

an empty chair, backwards
inked cobwebs across everywhere
and silent speakers
I swell with grey and sag with grey
latent with grey

I sleep for the dream
with the purple and green
definitely the sundried tomato