taxi headlights round the corner she locks the door
rolls the bag through a hint of fog
pine brush stripes her jean jacket sleeve
misted handle moistens her palm
she pulls open lifts the bag looks back

moves beyond quick
this moment flypaper stuck
there the cracked doorbell casing
fresh painted 5 in the address
screw-head line clogged
BB hole in the lower left
pane of the rust red door
paper-wasp nest one builder
seven cells
front mat last wiped her feet
on the way out
porch still fresh with bleach
pine needles in flat piles
she stepped over kicked a cone
into violets lining the walk
crack where roots push up a corner

but of course by now she is miles away
the driver looks in the mirror
she sees him looks away
lost not knowing until
they arrive where she told him to go