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...

  That blue guitar I had when I was young is gone now, frets and strings pulled back to another time.   I remember the burning...

He still goes over to his house, sits in his room, says a lifetime of goodbyes to ashes --what's left when the oxygen of h...