where someone wearing headphones turns
knobs and levers, reeling,
reeling in as though the house
were a shirt being pulled inside out.
At my end of the wire, a plug. I ’m holding it
in my palm, imagining
a, a plastic intaglio—
something that cradles attachments.
Suppose I don’t fi nd it? The SUV is gone.
Along with the cable and plug.
What happened to the crying child?
Our houses now lean in
as though their ligaments
have been extracted.