Voyage
Perhaps these three doors truly travel.
One abalone and salty—slick to the touch
as if satin-milled from the mouth of oysters.
The second, iron, its warped bars reaching
like bougainvillea flower or fragrant wisteria
torturous-tearing through the frame.
Third, a redwood tunnel, wind
whisperer luring visitors through millennia
into moist paths of bacterial lichen,
grooved with the springs of mycelium! Then,
whisked off to Sicily, perchance to Spain!
The language is practical—notes and syllables
the same. I turned to pass
through the ferrous choking giant,
made choice for another portal,
and could not find the iridescent door to return.
Nor a tree. There was no newness,
no grub to root out, none to chase,
and about face I returned—
where is my refund?
No doors found, no
forest, nor stars, only empty night.
Something happened,
not what I wanted, and
restless,
I ate.
