Wednesday, November 25, 2009

An Evening in Florence Before the Doors of Paradise


AN EVENING IN FLORENCE
BEFORE THE DOORS OF PARADISE


The impulse planted in the hand
by strangers
instructs to turn the knob.

No, I will not open the door,
the door of the word.
My words are made of gold,
but the gold that stays
in the mountain unminted,
the gold that will glitter
only for those who enter
the stone of the mountain,
only those who walk through stone
into the center of the centuries.

Words,
my untouched doors,
my incarnations.


Duane Locke

Posted over on Poetry Magazine

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