FIVE POEMS
On Becoming
The painting is of a door, its wood so warped
with moisture it cannot close. It stays ajar
leaving a sliver of light—enough to suggest
something sweet and almost unreachable
behind the door—and you sit in your
room working on the bills or those comforting
lists that make you believe you have
finally created time, wide open spaces
of emptiness, you are free to use or not use;
but you keep looking at that gap, keep
peering in, trying to see what is there,
and occasionally you get up and touch it,
as if you might feel it, what is there.I am being coy. I am not talking
