some watery shift
I am alone with the shelves in my mother's basement

I peer into the marine green eyes of a wooden doll and realize
this here belonged to me

the same one who hears the kettle now and feels the plucking string of a memory of a thought:
this must go and also this

in order to be still enough to sit
at my desk aging in the corner like a brown and asthmatic snake plant

I don't know if I've come back to this thought enough times
to roll out the leaf and write

here, this one here, and perhaps ever
it is coming around a corner in my mind, on a lucky night, 

to find a pile of books opened to the passages
that caught my attention long enough to think to leave them open