
Here’s to whatever time
it takes to have the heart it takes
once more to get there.
—William Kloefkorn, in “Poetry”
How is it I did not see it before,
this doorway I am walking toward,
I know I passed this way.
I was perhaps distracted by leaves
or more likely lost in my own dreams
but now there’s no missing it.
I can be so serious. So literal. So dense.
I like my invitations to tell me where and when
and what I might expect.
But here it is. The door. Small and getting smaller.
And if I do walk through the door, will there be another?
The mind it wants to know.
But the soul, the soul is more like light
that leaks through whatever cracks it finds
not caring where it arrives.
It does not knock, would stream on through,
though the mind puts on its leaden shoes
and insists on having a map.
And oh god, here I am under the lintel—
perhaps its less door and more of a tunnel—
how long, how long will it take
and can I go back? Can we ever go back?
And why and why am I scared? I think
I know something, I think
too much. I think I should not think any more.
The facts: a woman. This moment. Sunflowers.
Lead shoes. Light. An open door.
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