Inspired by a Little Song
I’d like to remember every bedroom door.
Thin metal that echoes when you knock it
with your knuckle; the simple chime resonates
within itself, as short and sharp against
the ear, as the fractured flesh that strikes it.
Sometimes, it creaks and drowns the carpet in
sunlight, moonlight, noonlight, and the roomlight
becomes something darker or brighter than
it is right now, but all that matters is
the change: to heat, like my deepest breath,
or to cool, like when I pinch my lips and blow
a slow breeze with breath that can’t ever end.
But I can’t recall all the plywoods and oaks
that locked me in where it’s safe to dream.



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