The city of flyers and pamphlets, handed out by the ignored.
The city of tissue paper, built of packets bought from beggars.
The city of movie posters, turning to goo between bus stop panes.
The city of origami, mostly half done, abandoned by shaky hands.
The city of hospital paper: wristbands and tags from the toes of the dead.
The city of tests, full of weeping and smoking and fucking on landings.
The city of toilet paper, its streamers and globs all tracing out sewers.
The city of shredded paper, only sometimes stained by fresh blood.
The city of library books, slowly browning like oven-baked bread.
The city of movie tickets, small squares held up to the light.
The city of butcher paper, shuttering up an empty store.
The city of catalogues, where living rooms never turn dusty or warm.
The city of paper straws, so soft, its cripples wet from the sky’s spit.
The city of paper notes, for the buried and high denominations.
The city of packaged printer paper, gloss brick on jewel-toned brick.
The city of unused notebooks, begging for pigment to make port.
The city of price tags, which refuses to be scraped off the Earth.
The city of cigar wrappers, rolling open and shut like muscly tongues.
The city of paper plates, wrapped tight near the stinking hot city of buffets.
The city of academia, whose caverns of bodies will cost you a fee.
The city of receipts, its stuffed windows and farmlands and doors.
The city of talismans, which burned down and was sipped by the sea.
The city of recycled paper, past lives flattened into wet sheets.
The city of EKG paper, spitting seismographic red dreams.
The city of government plans, rustling like palms in the wind.
The city of paper plantations, where nothing grows beyond certain heights.
The city of scripts, lovingly arranged into bouquets visible from space.
The city of paper planes, which moves like a hurricane over the Strait.
The city of sticky notes, which is falling apart as fast as we rebuild it.
The city of confetti, where everyone stands in the streets, tongues out.
The city of marriage and citizenship certs, all papercut jungle.
The city of filter paper, through which no human spirit has passed.
The city of bibles, each block you walk measured out in torn pages.
The city of awards, its gold stamps flaking off into the dirt.
The city of birthday cards, not quite sure where it belongs.
The city of envelopes, one containing the date of your death.
The city of tear-off fliers, its fluffy nubs cursing each loving tug.
The city of cut-paper art, its people and seasons named after the blade.
The city of baking paper, greased and waiting for the mother of all cakes.
The city of packing paper, which is said to surround the twin red cities of shoe.
The city of paper stars, whose makers were giant schoolkids in skirts.
The city of brown paper bags, soaked through with fragrant waffle oil.
The city of newspapers, tied to a tired old woman’s back.
The city of target practice, burnt hay and holes at the back of a range.
The city of paper lanterns, alight when each fold reaches the truth of the flame.

 

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