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.