Anyway,
what was wrong with the old one?
Stress-frayed, yes, but at its core a keeper,
able at last to sense the stir in the air
when love arrives, when fear passes
or emptiness

sets up
housekeeping. Still, corks
must pop for the fresh, the unbent,
the unburned, as if we don’t know the days
will come, the days of fire, of wind,
of heavy loads.