I’ve walked the length of my sentence
long after the gates unlatched,
counting the gravel underfoot
as if each stone might still accuse.

The years have grown moss over my name,
but transgression carved into memory’s vestibule
means there is always one chair turned away,
its back carved with the shape of my absence.

I’ve mended the fence,
stitched the ...

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In the breath between rafters,
a figure tends the slow orchard of pages,
turning each leaf as though coaxing
a season from sleep.

Their hands move in the grammar of dust,
palming the soft weight of forgotten syllables,
listening for the faint pulse
in the paper’s marrow.

Spines lean toward them
like elders at a fire,
offering fragments of weather,
the taste of ...

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