I haven’t written you a
poem for several weeks,
not because there are no words,
(but lord knows you never listen)
because broken clocks are only
right twice a day, and broken
clocks are always right, twice a day
I spend a lot of time thinking
about doors, and one morning after
another morning, and how
open doors are something
entirely different to those frightened
of lost time, and of the dark, and for those
who
long for damp air on their skin under
the
moonlight, wasted time is terror, personified
these doors often lead to secret
passageways, perhaps only
I can see the doors with steadfast locks,
with keys that are not really missing
and you, you are everywhere, standing
in each doorway with your own key hanging
around your neck a delicate noose, around
your
neck a clear escape, because an open
door
is just a broken clock
© 9.11.2017 heather brager
