Tuesday, October 04, 2011

bells and whistles

was it an old door, frozen compressed,
rusted by flashes of heat in the edges,
in a stone wall, pockmarked with oil,
sliding across, in stylized drips and curves,
the wood rectangle in between, untouched by grease,
you know it will creak, if it ever opened
a wishing well, an enchanted garden, a magic faraway land,
what would the other side be
maybe the same underneath, concrete and brick, brown painted,
artwork on oils, eyesore, veneer, finish
some doors must always be tried,
and when the skin lies, ask the debris

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