On Kurfürsten she will pass you a seashell.
It's solid gold and made to melt,
to slip through your fingers
to drip through your floorboards
to fill all holes and to worship in the cracks.
And outside as the leaves turn velvet
and the sky turns pink
and the mountains catch fire in the fall,
you will watch the whole world peel off.
This thin skin almost full
and that thick white porcelain into which the whole wide world has been said to tap its ash.
Ask her the time
Smooth boy she is the time.
In yellow sheets she curls the lips of pages,
turns smooth stones young,
turns smooth boys old.
Again and again and again it happens
until it is so pitiful and so wanting of attention
we come to see it as a child and come to call it love that birthed us crippled
stumbling for my boots, the ceiling soft with rain and every tap dripping.
They say some souls curtsy before leaving the curtains empty
gently waving goodbye,
your fabric is empty, there's nothing left to hide,
so goodbye wave the curtains.
And next there is something of plumber who taps gently on the door,
the death of sound is here to rid your taps of dripping.