A hand within touching distance of the doorknob.
No light, no sound, the lintel black with absence and size.
The wristwatch that talks, “Time for your medications.”
Feeling, the cold drip inside your thigh, the scent of fear.
Quiet, the set is cleared and the long spaces grow still, dark.
Bitter scent of attempted, the light, the warm hatching eggs.
Open the door, pick its hinges, flood the house with darkness.
A short burst of steam, the mailbox slot hot as his asshole,
darkness within and the field of the open human page. The
check for his pills, and a glass of water from crystal springs
tipped to his mouth: he is old now, yodelling in a sleep
indecent, cracked, his hand furtive sly yanks at a single sheet—
Pull the tubes, throw open the black wooden door and let go.
All the world staring at him from inside his own eyes
and I’m like, the hand that takes the door by the knob, firmly,
uprooted, as once I made him come with my hand, till he
couldn’t stop gasping for breath. Now he can breathe, now
he can live, now he can come, now he can write “dead” in the dark.