A Cord of Three Then Fraying

I am remembering those nights when

after soup

in the dim of our kitchen,


our father

would rise

reach for his coat,

find our fingers, mine and yours,

somewhere in our sleeves.


Stepping into the night


the air                   the right kind of cold.


You and I,

walking in his wake

mint gum, cracked leather, cologne




Or maybe this:

bright flakes

maze the black,


by stars

and stars

and my breath—

caged in


my soul’s own night


and you,

with our father,


now far ahead.


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