A Door That Color

We have never seen a door that color

Nor entered a stone walkway so rife with cosmos so potted with geraniums

Nor inhaled such a scent of broken mint of watered earth

We have never met a girl as pretty as the one that met our knock

Nor beckoned forward with a voice so like a meadowlark on a fencepost

On a July afternoon

Are we dreaming? Is it our hair being woven with honeysuckle? Our feet

bathed by hands? Our ears rubbed with ambergris?

Is it our waist bound with silk? Our hands gloved with calf? Our shoulder slung

And buckled? Our hip swaying a sword?

A sword?

The ribs of our back chafing a quiver?

A quiver?


The door is no longer a door but a gate and the gate opens on a road

That winds down into the valley and the girl is gone but there is a wind

And the sound of a creek falling over rocks and the wincing brightness

Of high snows and all of a sudden we don’t feel very good

We haven’t eaten anything since breakfast and that must have been yesterday

And we didn’t mention this in the waiver but we don’t breathe very well

At altitude and we have allergies and a sore knee

And we don’t even really want a refund though that would be nice

We just want to go home where we understand the money and what to do

With the soup bowl so can we take off the costume—hello?

The gate is no longer a gate but a rock cliff streaked with black water and moss

And the sound from the valley is not as benign as a waterfall but a long low hurn

Hello? And the trail downward is ropy with roots and the cry from the ledge

Is almost a woman screaming but we know in our bones is a big cat and


We don’t know how we also know this but we can kill anything

We stand still getting used to the new weight and the new lightness

We know this without any hunger at all

However broken we become we can kill any damn thing


September 9, 2009
Denver