Poems at the Door
The bed is thick with me, arrangement of flesh
And pill. The couch, the floor, the kitchen chair,
What do they care, the weight of me lifted
And done? But the door—the door—
When the door asks which side are you on,
How will I reply?
When is a door not a door?
What is black and white and red all over?
When the door is ajar who will enter, leave,
Or get the joke? Who will deliver?
In the dream the door kept blowing open.
I kept rising to close it.
Rain blew against the door.
I heard footsteps and traffic sounds.
Later my father entered the room and said
He’s sleeping, only sleeping. Let him sleep.
I came to the door, my forehead damp.
I pressed it against the wood.
Beneath the peephole
The wood was damp and cool.
Inside the wood I hear a ring of worshippers
Barry Seiler lives in the small mountain town of Roxbury New York with his wife, cats and cockatiel. He has published four books of poems, the last three with the University of Akron Press.
Michael Wilson Barry Seiler Chrissa Sandlin Mary Ocher G David Schwartz Jesse S Hanson Adejoh Momoh Keith Nunes Christopher Barnes Tiffani Hollis