Poet Laundry

    If not for the twig-nest of our twined fingers,   and the threefold cord we’ve kept to cup   in prayer long midnight...

  Mom and Dad harvested the green apples and then took down the tangled trees— the apricot trees, too, as they were dying.   But...

  There are no rules.   But there are, aren’t there?   When nothing hurts worse than breathing in, out, in, out.   W...