There are books all around my office.
On the floor. On shelves. A number of them
are spilling over in the dry sink. The sink is
old and has cat scratches running up and down
the brownish and yellow wood. I think it’s yellow.
Maybe it’s not. I tell myself to organize the books.
I walk into the office and look at them. I pick one
up and read from it. I place it in a new place. Still,
in the office, and not really put away. Just here.
Like me, and the desk I’m typing on.