The carpenter requests style numbers
of every single knob to order. 
Five rooms of protuberances on doors,
drawers, cabinets and I no longer care. 

I’m here for Joshua trees in spring, 
their white-greeny flower tipped
branches won’t point to any definitive place,
one damaged arm askew. 

For too long, taking down wrecked
walls, putting up new board.  If you and I
doesn’t splinter…
     Wood rats will come later,
steal leaves for nests.  Sturdy,
useful constructions, not full of grit,
the dust of broken things.  I can’t
weave those leaves into a wrap
that covers me.  Listen—
do you hear that cry I can’t pin down?