A letter came for someone who had lived here before. The ghost in hardwood. Cling wrap, incense sticks. I was new to it until I named it. The management of grasses. Termites. Taxes. I kept the rooted mulberry in short sale, the fence that had been rent for trespass of the dog, deer, the will of wandering. I put my stock in the extravagance of shelter, paint, roller, a new and stable ladder—the signature of habitation—though I was a phantom among phantoms. Another bin for the recyclables. To the left, the timers set. The pretense of a residence. To the right, the U-Haul idling. I got down on my hands and knees, the red eye of the tower pinging my existence. I dug beside the muted pink foreclosed to trees. The failed azaleas. Dark clouds mapped the progress of the crow in the beginning, the vagrant geese.