Bookshelves, just the shelves the books would rest on, not the upright pieces that make the whole thing work to hold books above the floor.

Four white rectangles. Four white, painted plywood rectangles, higglety-pigglety on top of each other in the early morning sun.

Gleaming faint yellow, faint blue, against the asphalt of the empty parking place at the edge of the street. Dawn declares many things art that are mid-day trash.

Something about how regular the pieces are and how irregularly they are angled at each other now makes many rearrangements seem possible, right at the edge of brain light