i've hidden a note in an old library book that i never returned i ripped the sleeve off and wrote my name in red permanent ink it smells of oak wood and dust i felt a warm guilt that i haven't felt since i was 8 years old when my shoe slipped on dog **** and i went into class with muddled shoes that smelled of underdeveloped intestines twisting i think you would understand the embarrassment the itching sting that my chest surrendered to when everyone asked where it was coming from this particular note was written in a momentary relapse of admonition an answer to a question that wasn't answered will you look in the rubble, where i told myself to stop talking about god all the time the moon never replied to my letters so i drank my weight in wine and when i woke up the sender's address was swindled between postmen whose hands were too crooked to open the mails slots