shingle, wood panel,
tile, brick, folded arms, silence—
for every wall between us
there is also a hidden door
waiting for one of us to open it
*
at our fingertips,
there is always some new cell
of infinity blooming—
a blank page always ready
for our story to begin again
Please delete “it”, the last word in the first stanza…..good poem.
As the other “anon” I vote for “it” because the “door” requires it.