For me, the long reach of memory.
For me, the irreversibility of change.
I stuffed two dozen lined sheets of paper
With chicken scratch, top to bottom
And on both sides, to testify
To the enduring longing for escape
Despite considerable endurance
Under house arrest in reality. There is a door
That can’t be gone through, and that
Has always been the only door for me.
Every time I rush out of the room
And into the darkness without a clue,
I come back because I went through
Something, yes, but not that only door
Not death I was born to hurtle through.
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