Driving to Launderland. Seeing Brian Teare on the street, recognizable from ten more paces than any other poet. My detergent jug on the seat beside me. In my back pocket, a fabric softener sheet.

Lying on the hood of somebody's Lexus parked in front of 7-Eleven, reading the new CutBank. Waiting for my clothes in the dryer. Coming to "Excavations" by Phan Nhien Hao and feeling OK.