I bought from the antiquarian
The Portrait of Dorian Gray
with rancid leaves like stamps
in an ancient collection

I ran home scampering
it was smelling like jasmines
at the corners
on the labyrinth streets
hidden in the big city
in my dress flounces

after the first chapter it started to rain
I was reading the ragged book
under the lamp shade
with dead butterflies
nibbling like a mouse
memories from the future

a gray cat in a window
was looking beyond curtains
my thoughts
like snails with sinusitis
crawling on the moist asphalt
without hearing a thing

sometimes the world is
a mirror
with shriveled silver