Art galleries.

In my city,

art galleries hang painters,

and not paintings.

2.

Paintings gather dust,

in a moldy room where a rat sips on a puddle of strong coffee,

in the slight disappointment I feel when driving by a spent Indonesian volcano,

in the supernovas that burn infra-red and ultra-violent but so far away, I will never hear about them.

3.

Paintings are transparent in this city.

You look through its glass walls,

and you will find a painter hanging himself on the wall.