In the land where all
lucrative spheres crash
I was left with a sea-salt trace.

Out came the spiders on my cheek
to survey those split ends
of memory, dripping down my face,
perplexing my tones.

No one will ever understand
the length of my transit
for the mark disturbs
the opening glance
of future chemists.

Like a dog to a tree,
a fish to its bone,
the never-never of paint
persists inside a closing.
Nowhere is that that ladder.
I own it.

I have only one wish:
To erase the steps that lead me
to the untouched air,
to the forgotten sea…