and I stare at the stove I have not touched in months / all because of a fleeting thought that maybe / my roommate forgot to lower the flame or that I ambled / over in some Klonopin-driven haze / to drowsily turn the knob myself. I allow a laugh / to leak through clenched teeth—this worry of mine is unfinished / until it infects all that’s important. Until I become convinced / that my apartment will crumble despite a foundation / that has outlived Presidents. / A friend told me there isn’t a thought I haven’t thought / to death. He said: I ought to learn / that only books are bound to last.