Monday, November 7, 2011


Protect the soft clear beauty of your inmost parts, the core of sighing,
the nerve that weeps with every gentle touch—each thought thereof.
This is no place for wind. If winter wants entry he must first cut his nails
and shave his prickled face. Nothing practical should happen here;
this place is no kitchen, full of knives and bleeding things,
no hallway for friendly thundering
and weather-laden boots, no bed. 
Promise me. Go on, break down your old front door
completely, stand wide-armed on the porch
with all the strength of welcome on your face, but keep that key in pocket;
I have locked the little door.
The thought of dirty leather or cold hands there chokes me.