WEBVTT

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Self-Portrait as a Door.

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All the birds die of
blunt force trauma

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of barn of wire of yield
of slow children at play.

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You are a sign, are a plank,
are a raft, are a felled oak.

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You are a handle,
are a turn, are a bit

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of brass lovingly polished.

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What birds, what bugs, what
soft hand come knocking.

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What echo, what empty, what
room in need of a picture

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a mirror a bit of
paint on the wall.

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There is a hooked rug.

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There is a hand hard as you
are hard pounding the door.

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There is the doormat owl
eye patched by a boot

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by a body with a
tree for a hand.

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What roosts, what burrows,
what scrambles at the pound?

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There is a you on
the other side,

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cold and white as the room,
in need of a window or an eye.

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There is your hand on the
door, which is now the door

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pretending to be a
thing that opens.