Imagine the world is no bigger
than a peephole—its diameter
eclipsed in your curious pupil.
What do you see, O god of the
unopened door? Can you make out
the square lights in poppyseed
windows, boats the size of safety pins
blown gently across the blue? And
what do you hear, so far away from
the restless hums and laughter,
the birdsong, bombs and beeping,
breathing machines connecting minds
in their absence? What sound rises
above it all? Prayer? Anguish? Silent
goodbyes that take years to say? 
And if you blink, does that count
as a day—sun folded between eyelashes,
shattered moon floating in a glass gray
iris. Pressed against the convex lens,
humanity must be a distorted image.
Little wonder, then, no answer comes,
despite the knocking.