—after Evie Shockley & Wille Cole                        i bring to the new place, with sapsucker            red door, your broad pockmarked face.            what calls me to your wear, your daily            broke-down breakdown, your burn-blue backside—i cannot articulate, but i lean you toward me, i do the carrying over the threshold,             the jumping of the broom. truthfully i             have never been against making a home   salting a cast iron, starching a sweat-striped, pen-stippled collar. but i am so unsure of             what to fill it with: garlic bulbs, wobbly dining chairs, pristine pickle jars, heirlooms,                  yellow tomatoes, photographs and glass       ducks to waddle along redwood bookshelf.                          and yes, you, poised and ugly, sturdy …