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The Archivist

Breath—
caught in the rafters’ dim lattice,
a leaf turns,
seasonless.

Dust,
a pale script
unfolding in the hollow of a hand.

Spines incline—
mute elders—
their gilt a slow
constellation.

No pen,
yet the air
breaks into lines,
each pause
a door
unlatched in silence.

Volume shut—
not ending,
but the echo
of a word
never spoken.

.