Friday, July 9, 2021


Perhaps every day 
of our lives
is a hall 

in a building 
so tall, clouds obscure 
the top floor.

And every poem 
we encounter  
is a hole in the wall there—

not a vandalism 
or incompleteness, 
or some emblem of disrepair, 

but an aperture, a door 
leading somewhere
we're not authorized to go—

or worse, a once-familiar interior 
which we now fear is haunted 
or condemned—

or worse-still, a one-way exit
emptying us out 
god knows where 

with an abruptness 
the thrill of which
time can't account for

onto a dazzling street 
we surely didn't 
take to get here 

and have never walked