It was about seven or eight years ago.
It was between the portly three-storey white house
and the faded red shed behind the lettuce patch.
At the edges of each photograph in the disorderly album
it was in that back and forth

when the problem was there and the people
tried a thing or two, the wind made the shutters rattle
and a bicycle leaned by the cellar door
and the people crossed the yard to locate
a box of tomatoes or the toolbox and carry it back.
                  carried it back and brought it over
and made a sly joke about the dance on Saturday
and propped up that fence. It’s