Gary LeBel

Suitcase

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.

A suitcase
you have to sit on to latch:
the smell
of boiled potatoes
from a few doors down