The protagonists have walked out of the imagination and stepped back into their novels, shut the windows, closed the curtains, locked the doors, lit a candle and poured a drink. The last thirty pages or so were trying.
Now the twilit beach folds in upon itself, pli selon pli, like an accordion
I pick up by its silver handles
and carry home.
you have to sit on to latch:
of boiled potatoes
from a few doors down