If we squint our eyes
we can make out the lateral cracks
in the white paint.
We can remark on the weathering
and the longevity
of the inanimate.
Sour door knob with metallic
I stand here facing the doorway, and,
going against all prior judgment,
I allow myself to see in numbers,
I think of all doorways
now and since.
I don’t know which foot will enter first.
I don’t know if the hinge will creak or not.
I know that I am not in yet.
I am here,
blood and bone and skin
tight over knuckles.
I knock quietly
with quiet hands;
of the anamnestic.