In one window, a million people sing
for the person upstairs.
I let the calls ring out, dab my eye
with a takeaway napkin, let old music
knuckle the muscle of my heart.
 
What I do: I don’t believe. I knit
my quilt made of old songs,
cut crystal candy dishes, leased blouses,
Dickie overalls, local honey
from an old friend’s hive,
butter bean and garlic scape
dancing in a Corningware bowl,
Gillette razors, deodorant pads—
the things that filled their houses.
 
I just sit vigilant, let the twang believe
the way you sit in a cold house: keeping
the small, hard goodness of my kin
close: a wondrous winnowing love.