Lodged in the deck door jamb, that vertical

rectangle, glue-jammed composite board,

mute, flat, dense opacity

where the door was—a young man slammed

his fist or something through single-pane glass,

reached for the latch, let himself in

to search for what he believed

he was missing. If I saw him on the Ave,

I wouldn’t guess it was he who’d visited—

he wouldn’t be wearing my shirt

or hat. In fact, he took nothing—

looked around, and that was that.

Like when you run the shower but don’t

get in. Maybe you’re late. Maybe

you don’t want that hot water on your skin

after all this morning. Like when

that pack of men outside Lucid pounced

on the guys in the band—Evan and his friends—

cracked a skull, broke a nose,

got some blood on them, and fled

with nothing. Young men who don’t know

what they’re missing I guess. They’re missing

something someone else must possess,

in that house, in that head, that chest—

it’s invisible, but let’s find out

if it’s not, maybe just hidden inside

the owner’s opacity. Let’s break in

to their house, their body. Best if our hands are

our instruments—then it can be said

we made contact. Let something touch our skin.

But what was it? We’ve left without it.