Dear,

Dora, there is a pain
goes with this thought.
It is a small boat,
maybe a child’s first,
with its sail. No, not
quite that. The small lake
is a wonder in itself,
without the sailboat.
The sunlight is remote
and suffuses it,
a molten thing. It is
quiet outside all children.

Rather, it is more a stone
brought in from a walk
and left upon a windowsill.
To say something (again)
about our idleness of thought
after it has done. The shape
has color and form and wind
goes through the mind
that beholds it, and knows
how its color would change
if rain could find it.

But it is not these things.
It is more a door beholden
in the city to a vanished society.
A tall, golden door with figures.
The lip service of all gifts.
We means Pandora.
We stand aside the river
of our walking a moment
to admire its stubbornness.
There is nothing more than this.
A hand that catches
its futile knob, which sings
with noonday sun
as if were all an invitation
and nothing more,
there, where the cuckoo lays
its precious eggs
and doesn’t wait.

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