Bókin (the book)

Language bears within itself the dialectics of open and closed. Through meaning it encloses, while through poetic expression, it opens up.

-Gaston Bachelard

I arrive. climb in the display window door, suitcase first. look around. the presentation is exquisite, aged to a thin grey.

book dust soothes my nerves. I run my hands across the surface of the desk until they are shaded in it. rub my fingers together. clear a space on the wooden-ribbed, pressboard trunk and pop the locks of the suitcase. the fort lies subdued.

outside the window, sidewalk gives to road, parallel-parked cars, a hotel.

I hang a ceiling, a rich back wall and a doorway to the door. make a seat: the Icelandic sheepskin from Cata atop a wooden crate. afternoon sun fades, leaving the day white, sporadic with rain.

I step out, look at/through the glass, see myself superimposed: a contest of depth and reflection. the Bird House melts into the round corner of the Centre Hotel Klöpp. the Tree Quilt a lump on the sidewalk. a car drives through the desk. the Doilie Collage fixed like an enormous web between the houses on the northwest corner of Hverfisgata. nothing makes any sense here. I go next door for a coffee.

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when I return, the door is open. I look. nothing has been disturbed. I climb inside and sit on the crate.

paper, desk, pen and ink. I write: a sorting of buttons, the alphabetization of names, a graph of questions, the taste of thought. the only way in is with this map of letters, crunched and spaced into the structure of a sentence.

a man stops outside the window, smoking. I turn my head. we read each other. I look away, watch his figure pass in the glass that frames the Danish king. soon it will be time to close. I read what I have done. it needs more. another line. Yngvi knocks on the window, smiles and disappears.

take it apart into pieces. binder clips clatter in the box. with the ma– stack the silent folds of fabric. I put on my jacket.