A corner holds two rods


The men, the boys, don’t come here anymore.

The women come to visit her and dim

the memory of he who went before,

but men and boys no longer mention him.

The house is growing empty places, grim

and chilling gaps where his things once gave

a quiet, dusty voice to secret hymns

that marked his modest path from womb to grave.

The men and boys don’t join me here now; they’ve

forgotten how it was for them when he

inspired them, taught them, loved them. But I crave

the scent, the feel of traces left to me.

A corner holds two rods–not much is here–

and when I turn the reels I feel him near.