It's endless, mindless.
Folding half, in half, in half again.
But there's something soothing
about 200 towels
fluffy and white.
Sweat.
They make you sweat
and then collect it into
the very fabric of their being.
Fresh, their static shock becomes
a lover's kiss
from the dimension of missing socks;
their warmth a hug
from kling-klang wombs.
Their ivory towers
built in Pisa
mock gravity before succumbing
to the allure of bodies in motion.
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