My grandfather’s old Harvard chair sits bare in the basement of my mother’s house. A scuttle of dust rushes off when someone brushes by. On its back: the inlaid emblem of

Vortices of verse traverse the universe and traipse across the mind of my eye, intimating places I’d seen in sleepwalk. Reckoning with irreconcilable relativity, I seek the silhouette of a spitting image

Brought home one rain-slick day so your sleight hands would have someone else to touch, he is hoisted like a sack over your shoulders, pushed about your middle like a fanny pack, and