On the floor

On the floor
amid the Sunday papers and old magazines
on the floor
lies a roll of rice-paper
once thought suitable for a scroll
a mural perhaps of poems.
Romantic. At the time it seemed
a good idea,
one of those beauties I never got around to doing.
It lies empty blank unwrit-upon
like an idea never bodied in an act.
And forty feet of tissue paper that missed its chance
sullenly reproaches me
and claims kinship with other things I know.

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