From the Fishouse

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.