My words to you become the plaster cast
To hold the fractured skeleton of streets,
The ribs of slowly decomposing things
And to preserve each form in frozen white.
The stupor of my punctuation marks
Slows down the dissolution of the days
And ties again the broken joints of rain
That falls to crash against the arid ground.
The tranquil mask upon decay and pain,
My words to you fill up the gaps between
The smashed and separated stairs of weeks,
The fingers of the rain, which fell to crash.