This is the last Sunday I will write
to you, after this the book closes.
I wrote my name on every page,
all my names in every word. It is a
glossary that goes nowhere. I pull
the thread through the spine, my shoulder
dislocates in the effort to shore up these ribs.
Some architecture is doomed at the start.

Sharpening match sticks and pouring out

bottles of kerosene.  I light cigarettes and

regrets to fill the time until the rain and her
sisters show up. The cat finds my lap, I should
share her contentment but that glass is empty.

.