The Land of Socks - Dustin Vado

I lost
        my key
                somewhere near
                        where Tupac and Elvis
                                party with yucca man,
                        in the same hood as 
                every lost sock,
                                and the fawn keeps staring.

What is a rabbit hole
        without rabbits
or carrots
        ground into onions
                between the potatoes
        (or mold?)
growing into vodka crevices
        hidden under dryers
                and mad hats,
                        and the fawn keeps staring.

But the key
        is still lost
                and outside is 
                        no place for socks

without shoes 
        to hoard 
                their fuzz
        or feet 
        to miss their comfort,
                        and a rabbit hole
                filled with dead flowers
                        that shines like sun 
                                through crystal - 
                                        every color 
                                        without sight to name its cousins
                        where the thoughts should be
                and where the caterpillar learned to fly
        and where all the lost socks gather
    and the fawn
keeps staring.

This elephant must be pottery
        to be the feature of
                clay,
        the color of dead flowers
                and alternative lifestyles
                        too foolish to check
                                the vodka crevices
                                        for other lovers of the Serengeti
                                                coexisting
                                        yet unable to name
                                their cousins 
                        or toes,      
                    and
                the
            fawn
        keeps
staring.


There is no way for light to escape
        the fern gully where the cousins
                meet for a bonfire
                        on foggy beaches,
                                warm in their socks
                        and hearts
               among family 
                        in the real heaven
                                as bright as
                        crystal shining
                                through onions
                        on laundry day,
                                and their fibered
                        faces lend smiles
                                to every phrygian
                        toe missing its cover
                                on cold nights
                        when not even the fawn
                feels like staring,
        and lost is found
in the land of socks.