Recently I rescued a supermarket
bag from the crotch of a tree,

found fewer shields than souvenirs,
figured out how to game the pain scale

and opted not to. Water the color
of watery tea comes through

the light fixture on a holiday
when nobody will come plug it up

and make us regret complaining.
Nothing like a movie to remind you

that you never travel and a lot
of almost fornicating happens

a mere floor or two above the one
you’re on. Shoulder, TV flicker, flash

of back. I’ll make up a name and try
to affix it to whoever left

these four white doors on the sidewalk,
which I dragged home two and one

at a time. In daylight they reveal
smudges left after tenants groped one

spot, then the next—hallway, stairwell,
street, the mess just beyond, forest

on the dented side of a globe.
There’s always the absurd

woven into every nest I build and hop
around, waiting for the right one

to wander in. The right one
is the one who wanders in.