The part of a pirouette

that is not grace,

but torque and gristle.

That dancers

remind me of my father

who reminds me of quarks,

mown violets, and a tangle

of chairlegs in a church

basement. The truth: that

I don’t miss you,

but would feel relieved

to see you again.

An entire year sifted

down to the dregs

of December.

Disrobed trees,

discarded oaths,

four gourd birdfeeders

dangling like the idea

that a home is primarily a hole

bored into the skin

of what might have sustained you.