Door

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I was blind, then loss.

Now I carry a door frame

wherever I go.

I placed it next to a quarry

and another blind man stumbled out,

his arms flailing like broken horses.

I placed it next to a slumping

cloud in a field,

but only wind knocked,

calling to itself the open and close

of other doors.

I hung it from a clothesline

but the wood limped

in memory of necks.

I stood it in a graveyard

with the other doors,

but the dead misremembered

the door as arms and quickly fled.

Soon I discovered that a door frame

is useless without belief.

As crucifixions are.

Songs not hammered out of joy.

The carving of shapes into wood.

Its inevitable creak.