arrival. How what you leave doesn't leave you and will not let you go. Every wheel's revolution across a cobbled street, every letter marked Return to Sender; shadows of passing birds that graze the fields without touching. You read once that someone is always washing up on a shore somewhere, blinking in the new-old light, hefting a satchel that soon mysteriously expands into a house with no more storage, not even in the garage. Your hand hovers over a shelf of books: too late you remember the page you need to read lies in a taped-up box in a basement or attic elsewhere. Picking up styrofoam trays of chicken thighs or pork chops at the store, you marvel at how pink and clean all the severed joints look, as if rosaries of feather or blood never blessed the butcher's block.