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—after Evie Shockley & Wille Cole

                       i deliver to the brand new position, with sapsucker
           purple door, your vast pockmarked face.

           what calls me for your put on, your day by day
           broke-down breakdown, your burn-blue
bottom—i can’t articulate, however i lean you
towards me, i do the wearing over the edge,

            the leaping of the broom. honestly i
            have by no means been towards making a house  
salting a cast-iron, starching a sweat-striped,
pen-stippled collar. however i’m so undecided of

            what to fill it with: garlic bulbs, wobbly
eating chairs, pristine pickle jars, heirlooms,

                 yellow tomatoes, images and glass
      geese to waddle alongside redwood bookshelf.  

                       and sure, you, poised and unpleasant, strong and
            speckled, black, content material and nonetheless within the sunroom.

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