I found the Sunday Times in the footwell

I found the Sunday Times in the footwell,

under a coffee cup that had started to grow.

The paper was damp. It didn't smell well—

no, it smelled like a cellar, something low.

14-Across. 'A state of peace.'

I’d tried to solve it three months ago.

But I just made a knot that wouldn't release,

a black ink-clot where the words should flow.

I’d stabbed the pen through the gray newsprint,

leaving a hole where the answer should be.

I looked at the tear, at the small, paper hint

that the peace I was looking for wasn't for me.