Monday, January 8, 2024

Sailboats Sinking through Dim Light

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.

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