closet with the letter 'd' on either end

Oh with gratitude, friends, I’m alive and thinking

about this dated metaphor. 36 and doing it again,

feeling new when I’m not. Forgive it, revise it. Oh I

felt less closeted than doored, an “or,” embellished

at the teeth on either end with an outcome. Factual,

I have decorated each door from the other side and

never just gathering the knob in my hand. Flattened

diadems collaged, I thought, cosmic radar for all our

later gazing, museum tablet on and on, behind glass,

canonic laser algebra, deathbed shooting star. Who’s

to say? That seemed like the magic a secret believer

could ask from it. Oh seems. And how it follows you

out. Come on get in I’m in this junker again and

writing “FOR SALE” in backwards letters onto the

window and adding whatever still makes noise from

inside its own made up case: dated doored gazing

deathbed window. Oh and pursing my lips wherever

your eye falls! Oh and oh and, I’m alive! Soon enough

the lethal hand of god reaches into all of us to pull out

something, a heart a rib. Come outpace me if you

can—already I have unlearned the name Adam,

unrehearsed any story of man and woman. Decorated

my body from the other side of that outcome.