This place could use a Harold—
At least his purple crayon.
There are no lines, no outlines.
The door in the wave dimples,
A frameless indentation
In a shining wall of dust.
Wait. It’s not a door for souls
Or for anything really.
It’s a soft spot in the light,
A bruise in the afterlife.
It’s an opportunity
Not to go through, but to push
Messages through. A mail slot.
How did Houdini miss this?
There are no hands to push with,
No throat to shout out, despite
The odd sense of a sweet taste
In the absence of a mouth,
But there’s the feeling of words
Sinking through that spot, paper
Sailboats sinking through dim light.
Monday, January 8, 2024
Sailboats Sinking through Dim Light
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