Self-Portrait as a Door.
All the birds die of blunt force trauma
of barn of wire of yield of slow children at play.
You are a sign, are a plank, are a raft, are a felled oak.
You are a handle, are a turn, are a bit
of brass lovingly polished.
What birds, what bugs, what soft hand come knocking.
What echo, what empty, what room in need of a picture
a mirror a bit of paint on the wall.
There is a hooked rug.
There is a hand hard as you are hard pounding the door.
There is the doormat owl eye patched by a boot
by a body with a tree for a hand.
What roosts, what burrows, what scrambles at the pound?
There is a you on the other side,
cold and white as the room, in need of a window or an eye.
There is your hand on the door, which is now the door
pretending to be a thing that opens.