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.