Late Winter

It leaves turds shaped like rice grains

beside the jar of rice grains, and dry as them.

It is not behind the stove now. It is rummaging

in my sink. It is a simple thing, hungry

like you or me. The residue

of my life passes through it

as we are the residue of lives

which pass through us, and

though not just the same

this thought is what I have

for setting no traps.