records, upstairs I sort laundry. Socks,
you can pick out yours,
I can’t. I visit with the pomegranate’s
three reddish-orange blossoms, fire
against glass. The pitcher plant,
an all-night diner, no customers—
it took eleven years to find one house.
By spring, clothes flapping on a line,
maybe our sorting will be easier,
windows open, bulbs up.
