The books
left behind in Jan’s flat spoke
different languages. You could go through the shelves
(collecting borderlands)
trying to guess who may have bequeathed them
(who knows if in retaliation
for the course of the plot)
perhaps: due to some
non-sharing zeal. Pacing around the flat rented out
for so long I greeted
in the forgotten books the experience of the world
(small tears on the spines
witnessing their journey)
the neglect of a company not yet ready
for death. Time in which a hand (mine
yours:
reader) might yet extract
life from all that stillness.