There is space. No cars for miles, dirt roads,

plastic withdrawal. Gridded by electric wire

elasticized by want. Weekend mornings

I drive around seeking images, yon bridges,

half-dead towns with a tan brick one-story

post office, trash in the front yard, and muddied

stray cats I always almost bring home. A cabin

stolen under cover of night. In an antiques shop,

the owner asks, “Know what these are?” of a pink

box, deprecated, “a young woman like yourself

might need them,” ignorance evident, his grin,

“Condoms, from the 1920s!” How’d he know,

top shelf, what else could I want, me squirrels away

in my body and then out of the store, excuse myself

to get cash at the ATM to buy a YIELD sign, instead

I run to my car, bumfuck nowhere, I’m here though,

and my cat’s heart has shifted to the right, falling

into place, the open cavity, the propensity

of all matter to eat the void.