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...

  There it was sticking up from the soil like a skeletal hand from the crypt.   I didn’t expect it, and to be honest, I had st...

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