There’s that door. Please, let me pass, I want over,
on its other side. Taking this heat only serves
to make me colder, harder, more isolated.
I can do that easily.
I’ve been serving in solitary many years
on this craggy Elba of slate blue Alone.
So please back up, move over,
let me out before I use this hardness
to break things that should remain pretty
on the shelves of memory lining these walls with
but this one door. One that swings out, I discovered,
when finally I lifted my eyes from the floor.
D’you know stepping out from one side of a door
is stepping into something new on the other?