The market is always packing: the paint peels, ready to go, from spires and towers and bridges that whisper leaves in their wake, pale as unpainted dolls. Thank you, the man says, folding money with prices, 100, 500. The palaces are tidied away. Fox-fur barks at the gates, at the wind that blows visitors inside: quick shopping as the men begin to wheel the market away. Yet it remains, packing, when dawn lands on the dolls every day like a buyer's hand.
May 1st, 2013