The daughter wondered why her young men’s faces
always made him
silently malign
appearances and
mock their vague intent.
Wooden then he
saw her binding blankets, fold-
ing sheets
against the dream of fleeting cold
never knowing
what such things have meant.
What else than
pillowcases stained and frayed
linens raveled,
trailing dingy strings
behind like
shreds of promises betrayed
and herself
undone could else have taught her?
He made the chest
for holding finer things
and her for
something finer than what got her.
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