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A closet with two doors may brook
two separate rooms, a window look
into a recess void and black.
One house may front another’s back.
Some doors disclose the empty air
and gaping sky. A narrow stair
may scarcely give a berth to walk.
A tower may be built on chalk.
The walls may stand at jagged angles,
roof be wreathed with vines in tangles,
shutters ever flank the sides
of windows that they oversize.
But only in a single place
will eyes regard this fractured face,
this tilted aggregate of walls,
this mounded monument of halls,
this scavengement of castoff board,
this labyrinth, this builder’s hoard.
It looks out with a thousand eyes
that, panes all dark, re-emphasize
the question that the single door
below them ceaselessly outpours:
Oh, will you, won’t you wander me?
These shattered shards of symmetry
are waiting for humanity
to come and soon be lost in me.
Thus speaks the door, and thus the pile
that looms and leans in manic style.
The door creaks out its endless goad
along a desert’s endless road. |
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