Cabin libraries always look warm
and deliberate for something so unplanned.
Take one. Leave one.
A borrowed book belongs anywhere.
//
The stacks in Ashley’s apartment come off more Doric than inviting.
A row in the windowsill fits snug like vacant brownstones.
Even if there was space for one more,
it would look odd
among the tall, straight spines and faded covers
blistered by seasons.
I lend her Consider the Fork because it’s all about giving.
She stays in her room when I’m home,
shut behind the white french doors.
//
A copy of The Big Sea sits on my nightstand.
It props up a lamp I should have anchored to the wall.
I haven’t opened it since college except to find a quote I’d misremembered
about ghosts and keys and ships.
We’ve only got four months left in this house anyway.