In time, the door seals shut of its own accord,
rusted over at its side in the absence of touch.
There’s a rotting hole where its knob used to be,
just big enough for your hand, but you don’t go back
because the door has sealed itself too well at last,
its hinges rusted still by wind and rain. Paint
is peeling away from the hole, with a stink
of mold and dead old things; you don’t go back
because the door now paved with rust and peeling paint
attracted something alive with the odor of its decay,
seeking shelter from the rain within the spaces
where the wood has given way. You don’t go back
because the door cannot hold back the smell
of the pile of human hands, fallen through the hole
where its knob used to be; you could open it again,
but you wouldn’t keep yourself intact. You don’t go back.
August 2004