A contemporary poem about the door’s bad hinge, using a concrete image system, a pressured turn and a restrained open ending.
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The door complains before anyone enters. Its hinge has studied every return. I oil it, but the sound remains— a thin metallic warning in the house. Some thresholds do not want repair. They want the person crossing them to arrive with both hands visible.
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Impossible objects become almost domestic, turning strangeness into a place the speaker can inhabit.
Attention creates an opening but cannot determine what lies beyond it.
A contemporary poem about table with a temper, using a concrete image system, a pressured turn and a restrained open ending.
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