Pages of notes overflow my desk
their writing erratic and tending toward
overcrowding, as if the prospect of fresh,
blank pages to come remains an
unsubstantiated rumor.
Generations of used glasses have
arranged themselves into sometimes
random, sometimes significant-seeming
configurations, staining the wood with
condensation as they melt, abandoned.
A guitar takes up a bereft air from its
position in the corner, its top e-string
spiraling crazily away from the neck,
broken after repeated irritable retunings.
I am slowly (thoroughly, painstakingly)
compiling a list of things
that don't work.
compiling a list of things
that don't work.
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