after Nate Marshall after Liesl Mueller
there's the book on the lonely table which you didn't enjoy much, you left it after all those weeks I wanted you to read it creases and dog-ears disappear as the date on the receipt comes closer until it uncloses its doors eventually and with the book I reverse into the woody shop, a Quaker house once, he gives me money and the barcode unbeeps my hand unshadows a royal spine with the musical letters, I stop smiling and everyone around me browsing whispers using different vowels. so this time I exit, carrying nothing, into the morning which has yet to learn how to make noise I unconfuse you with my texts now the book waits for nobody in particular, and at some point down the line it will be printed and then written while the tree grows