a tilting of air

I found the book, old
Ripped in half, sitting
On a dusty shelf, alone.

Let me correct
Myself — I don’t know
All that was ripped away.

There on the last page, dangling
A sentence, unfinished
Simply, “I’m going to”

Going where or to what?
Not even an ellipsis to say
It didn’t matter.

And still…

I remember, fleetingly
The missing pages, misplaced
And fumble the plot, of course.

Yet — the cover is nice, binding
Pages for a soaring plot,
Staged on a dusty shelf.