Nero

A cut-out frame opens up the microscopic universe to the point of bacteria and then

it’s all about the flow of oxygen coffee-grinding time, drop after drop dilluted into a black spot.

Why would anyone use paper scissors to slit open an old page: a moist yellowed paperback,

unread, like the ocean of hair at the end of a long day at the barber’s shop. It’s all about the square

figure of these doors, a single other poor soul doing the same thing you do everyday

which is the same thing he does everyday and then the breeze comes in from waters not here;

maybe a sign that gods do indeed exist.

What happens when someone crosses that door unknowingly of all those dead?

The frame has no border: it is itself the border.

Come on, step on it and feel the edge.

The world is suddenly not inside, not outside

the world exists because we stand.