This is the town made out of paper-sheet.
This is the corner of the world.
A thin crust sitting on the knife’s slim-cut blade.
Tittering in the whims of subtle airs,
dull as a box,
empty as the unheard voice of a screaming mouth.
Its matter is ghostly and impalpable
swift like the crock of an egg
it slips down from your fingers,
and gets away from you the closer you get.
And the curtains fall whenever your hand rises,
and the light drops as the ripples, shy and frightened,
gather at the far end of the sea,
where the raving past of infinite is asking
for a debt not paid.
For I have set the tone for this dreamless dream,
and the buckets of paint have fallen all over me
marking a tattoo that is impossible to ditch.
