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
No comments:
Post a Comment