There is no way out of the house, the digger
has the cellar key wrapped around his waist.
Though my sister bend, trying to find a crack
in the stone of the house. That's what kin do,
slip a note through a crack. Though the note
is never in the crack, never in the perfect row
of white lupine planted in memory of. No way
out of grief, I go home, take the dog out, play
catch-the-stick in the night air. Once I threw
the old house key to the north star. The dog
went after it, buried the key in the soft earth.