1217
I keep a door in my woods
is there some smaller than to be here
hum?
beautiful biscuit into paint
over a stile it is a tree
was planed once, morticed
a rusting timber
leaves have stained
a world is passing either side
how many have come through?
out of this press, words otherwise
ancestors are
might lie in wait, climb stairs to it
and fallen just so far
a courtesy to knock
wait for the visit – my cure
the paddock between doors
the woods in the way
I hear frogs through there
cicadas of a summer long since
once I was lost for the word
keep them in the passage now
long grass waving unseen with the wind
still broad daylight in there
where a mansion could have stood
feet in the river
hung on a peg
only a nail
in my mother's long coat
the wrong key
nothing to lock up now
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