Paper
Publisher Description
Paper
Points
Ticket
In the queue, the ticket rubs against my palm.
Fluorescent light cuts it into strips.
A voice announces order: number.
Paper becomes a map that doesn't say destination.
On the seats, the shadows count silences.
Someone folds a piece of paper.
The time stamp is gently pressed.
The series progresses like a hand in a movie.
A bell resembles a small verse.
The signs polish our proposals.
The ticket falls; it is no longer property.
There remains a spot in the middle of nowhere in the city.
The clock cuts the air in minutes.
Every minute is stored in a paper bag.
My voice records: sequence, number, light.
I keep this little sign as a guide.
Plate
The sign is flashing: wait.
Words are carved into aluminum.
Outside, the crowd flows like liquid.
Inside, time remains in decay.
A letter is missing at the end of an instruction.
Absence becomes a regulation of movement.
The seal has no voice; it leaves a mark.
My eye counts the dots like shifts.
A shadow sits at the back of the door.
The sign light draws a face.
He doesn't ask; he just points: a passage.
The city is learning to speak with signs.
My voice takes the image as proof.
I place it on the map that has no roads.
A red dot points: here.
And this becomes a small trace of the day.
Evidence
The machine produces a paper, cold and thin.
Printed numbers like a cardiogram.
A click, a spark.
Paper folds, preserves time.
In my pocket it looks like a memory without a name.
The stamp on the top shows the date.
I don't recognize the day; only the order.
I follow the printed trail like a route.
At a kiosk they throw it away as useless.
For me it's a small map; it leads to doors.
The words on it are active: PAID.
My eye reads them like little commands.
A line in the middle divides the world.
Above: service, below: obligation.
In every cut, I leave a trace of voice.
The paper whispers the date it is leaving.