Unfinished

The lamp is dim and the wood is scarred.

Moving the stack is always hard.

I find the spine with the broken back,

held by a rubber band, dry and black.

It snapped when I touched it, a little sound.

The plot is lost, the ending unfound.

Page eighty-four has a brown, dried ring

where the coffee sat—a heavy thing.

The year went by like a closing door.

I don't look for the stories anymore.

I just need the space for the clock to sit

and the dust to settle, bit by bit.