Anatomy

Anatomy


Doors


Door

At the city's knees stands a door.

Its keys guard words we didn't utter.


A stamp on the handle: protocol number.

Light passes through paper, not words.


Joints remember steps that were not recorded.

The door closes; the sound becomes an archive.


I count her steps. I hold the tail of silence.

It doesn't open; it shows where the transparency fits.


Stamp

On the front of the envelope a stamp awaits.

Red or black, signed by invisible hands.


The stamp says: confidential, archive.

The letters fall like leaves that no one picks up.


Protocol number. A series without a face.

Each letter of the seal is a weapon or a promise.


I read the outline of the seal as a cut.

Every gap in her speaks of what refused to be said.


Envelope

The envelope closes the possibilities in paper folds.

Inside, dates that failed to be consumed.


Someone wrote: "examined" and then corrected it.

The correction is in pencil; a prosthesis that breaks easily.


The margin holds unsigned memos.

The pages breathe the weight of procrastination.


I hold the envelope like you hold a promise that wasn't kept.

The door outside the archive remains locked.


Protocol number

The number is written with a steady hand.

It seems like a calculus exercise: what do we allow to be measured?


There are limits hidden in the sequence of digits.

Silence is read as a decision.


Each number has a stamp and an expiration date.

The fee is placed linearly, like a delivery date.


The narrator records, does not explain.

It measures what those responsible omitted.


Black stripe

The black stripe eats words with appetite.

Shadows remain, proposals without a body.


The void becomes a person; the name becomes a place.

The document hurts where it was cut.


The office door hides black stripes on the wall.

The files look like book spines without titles.


I read the stripes like bloodlines.

The revelation begins where the black line ends.


Passageway

The corridor says the names of old decisions.

Its doors have numbers and times.


Steps are repeated without meeting.

Someone left a note: "come back when the lights go out."


Its walls are dusty from pending matters.

Each turn stores an unfinished case.


The narrator stands in the middle and counts the shadows.

The corridor holds the silences like an archive.


List

There is a list of names of things that were lost.

Their order is more important than the truth.


Every entry hides a decision not to return.

The gaps between elements become sequences.


I keep a list of empty words.

Reading the catalogue is a ceremony.


The door at the end of the list does not open after signing.

All that remains is the paper with the signature and a piece of silence.