It is time now to peel the wallpaper,
look at the off-white naevi, remember
old maps (terra recognita, though); lose colour
impressed for liking or by the adventurer.
There was a sea: the ashes of scale and breaker,
no Trades to plume them, blanch like talc together.
Once the world had seven roofs: no shelter
now but for anchorets of uncounted vapour.
Time to scour the terrine, gluttonous lover
(crystal? Seal the lid, then), and earn your supper
pumping it empty: cordially. Ghost-ether,
one to quadrillions, is too rich a matter.
There was a city: its golem of invader
lifted his vizard and was empty armour.
Dimensions did search outwards, the passions of number;
null both ways, now, and the hands feeling neither.
There was a sung creed: fingernail, black finger
scratching, the neumes are peeled from the psalter.
Once a through would coral in image-water,
polyps of speech: now the racked reefs are lunar.
High time for pleating phrase into word into letter,
serif to point, and that pulled outer-inner
through itself, leaving the absent conjuror
nothing between his no-gloves but horror.