there’s always a door
an emptiness to cross
unknown spaces on maps
filled with dire beasts
a perpetual threshold
to move love through
like a bearded iris unraveling
into a crisp spring morning
with no latch except hesitancy
a hand lingers on the jamb
as if time can frame
a portrait on a wall
containing as a thought
the next step and fall
(August 10, 2016)
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