Poem: The Door

 

The Door

 

the door was in fact a statement.

it opened only to be left behind. 

searching its corners,

it imagine the knob a curious face. 

 

clues in the grains of the panels

allude to a theater stage--

the comings-and-goings 

of the many who had used the door,

swinging through exits and entrances,

to swish, skip, stumble, sidle, saunter, stride.

 

the keyhole not quite right,

too cold for my eye,

every lack of nuance linear.

every option perpendicular.

and yet somewhere, i knew,

in the desert of the wood,

woven from the smallest knotholes,

dwelled an unquenchable flower.

 

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11/29/23 ... lots more changes... running up against the limits of what I can be, despite what I want to be

10/30 more desperate fixes...

10/25  ... fixed typo in first sentence  ... "the contours" replaces "its contours" ... sound-flow & meaning mods to second to last sentence.