Notebook

The notebook stays open because nothing wants to close.

Wine rings multiply. Plans sit like unused tools laid out carefully so they won’t accuse me.

Women pass through the room carrying their own weather. I study the draft, call it philosophy.

Music waits in another chair, arms crossed, knowing I’ll explain it again instead of touching it.

Books murmur from the floor. Snow keeps falling as if practice were possible.

By the last page I have fewer ideas, which feels briefly like progress.