The shelf remembers nothing.
Its empty squares receive
whatever hands bring home.

A brass key waits beside a bowl.
Neither calls the other finished.
Rain writes crooked addresses
on the glass,
then carries every letter down.

Across the room,
a machine keeps counting.
Its numbers cannot mend a hinge.
They only tell us
where the door stood open.

Bring back the blue cup.
Set it where the pale ring waits.
Not another cupboard,
not a brighter label
for the space it left.

The map must meet the ground.
A river drawn in silver
cannot wet the roots.
A song described as thunder
does not shake the sleeping spoon.

We cross the hallway slowly,
holding things by their true names:
cup,
key,
thread,
the weight of an promise.

One square fills.
Another stays unlit.
There is no shame in marking darkness
where the lamp has not arrived.

Outside, the rain loses its alphabet.
Inside, a hand returns
to check the latch,
then checks again.

Let morning find the room uneven,
but each small object present,
each remaining absence plain,
and every road returning
to the place it meant to reach.

No borrowed dawn.
No painted flame.
Only light,
when light comes.