24 November 2023

Postcard 212

The tin pitcher rusts by
the lone hose-bib, belly full
of cast off rain. The lip,
a thin and dripping threshold,
marks time twice

Within, within the humming fridge
distracted, loose-lidded, shared,
the quart of milk, date yet unmet
resides upon the high shelf,
sours and consumed

Everywhere the straight screws
brass and driverless, lose some thread --
embedded in old wood, shrunk and
warped -- stripped purposeless,
held-fast and loose

This is the home we have
an inheritance in halves,
twice marked time


  1. I just got this today, and it's a beautiful poem and card.

  2. So nice to hear about a successful arrival