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THE DOOR TO LIFE By Quentin Smith
Or perhaps the light drowning into the wall Is the sound of this life. Or maybe The Bullets of rain firing into the ground And being muffled in the soil like harmless blanks.
When I get up nad move through a door I never quite pass it – somehow I am always There, my form still walking, still framed In a square of the unending door.
I never quite pass through. If I remain behind the bars of this window On the cushions of this couch any longer Perhaps it may happen that the threshold of my life
Will start splintering and cracking all about me.
Published in THE KENTUCKY POETRY REVIEW, 1982. Written 1973. |