We present this work in honor of the poet’s 70th birthday.

I pick up a ball of twine
to tie-off newspapers
for recycling –

thick brown twine
that’s been here for ages –
twine from the butchers,

twine from the electricians,
twine for parcels
the kind everyone had –

alongside candles,
Camp coffee, waxed oven paper,
little bottles of essences –

the last thing
you’d ever think of
until you’d go looking

in the cubby hole
under the stairs
where the splintered mirror

lies upended,
reflecting whatever comes its way –
all those quick glances

before work each morning
or last thing at night,
taking in the sunlight,

the frost and the rain,
the unfamiliar heat,
the bedroom quiet.