Novel

Novel

The novel that I abandoned five or six
years ago sits on an orange plastic chair
where a bookshelf meets the kitchen.
I don't think of it often, though it's
the size of a small child, maybe
a third grader. Most of it is rewriting,
the beginning lit by crisp electric
lights, first chapters circling back in endless
loops, the end in shadow. But still
complete in its state of partial being,
something significant achieved
in characters formed in stasis, like life
in ways that completed stories aren't:
few questions answered, no end or resolution,
no one ever getting what they want.