The Burning Door

II.

Someone once said “if I sit all day
in this small corner of the room, in this small corner 
of the world, I just might disappear
inside myself,” and he tried it, and indeed he disappeared
as a human and turned into something like a door
through which we can see a garden with flowering
trees and small birds, through which we can see people
passing on the street, and which we can close
when we want our privacy. So he turned into everything
he saw as he saw it and felt a kind of happiness
unavailable to those who are only present, 
like a table or a radio—or a window, though windows
have more complex stories and psyches: they break
if you look through them too hard. And there were rivers
flowing in the air, in the sky and through the trees;
there were also rivers underground he could ride 
like leaping from his own body. There were so many stories
between the rain falling and our getting wet, dreaming
and letting go of someone’s hand, reaching out and never 
grasping it again. Of touching only air.

Michael Hettich | Mudlark No. 40 (2010)
Contents | The Burning Door III