than not. I know where
the book is. There's a
picture of it on the shelf
inside my mind. Yes, it
needs dusting. But the map
works with or without a
matte finish. When I go
there, though, the place
is a shadow. If I wanted
room for something new I
would be delighted. "There!"
It's different to remember
what was there before.
Line endings. A refusal
to speed up. Blank truth
that speaks louder than
ornament. I know it's
no accident that she picked
your essay to read, before
the news. She used to dream
of high water. And there it
would be, lapping the
concrete next to her morning
jog. I made her go once,
to hear you, despite
the buttoned-up setting.
"It could be our last
chance." I'm glad, really,
even if it sounds
morbid now. Anyway,
this should have been
a reading. But I can't
find the words, only
their spot on the shelf.
The shadow knows.
