The shop looks wretchedly empty.
There are houses
that are built inside it,
smelling of old books and formaldehyde.
Here, men come with locked sunsets
crumpling them inside their jeans pockets,
like the sound of an FM radio
in a train station.
Some of them come
to sell their old cars here, while
a few look for a used fork
to grind their old miseries
into miniature paintings
that look like a trail of ants.
Balance sheets are scattered
everywhere on the floor,
counting how many suns
have fallen from the sky
and how many more
are yet to find a home.
I come here almost everyday
with a handful of dust
to cleanse my sufferings.
Like the way you empty a can of fish,
I come here to discard
this old body to fill in it-
light,
peace and
broad valleys of sunshine.