The Door

for Robert Duncan It is hard going to the door cut so small in the wall where the vision which echoes loneliness brings a scent of wild flowers in a wood. What I understood, I understand. My mind is sometime torment, sometimes good and filled with livelihood, and feels the ground. But I see the door, and knew the wall, and wanted the wood, and would get there if I could with my feet and hands and mind. Lady, do not banish me for digressions. My nature is a quagmire of unresolved confessions. Lady, I follow. I walked away from myself, I left the room, I found the garden, I knew the woman in it, together we lay down. Dead night remembers. In December we change, not multiplied but dispersed, sneaked out of childhood, the ritual of dismemberment. Mighty magic is a mother, in her there is another issue of fixture, repeated form, the race renewal, the charge of the command. The garden echoes across the room. It is fixed in the wall like a mirror that faces a window behind you and reflects the shadows. May I go now? Am I allowed to bow myself down in the ridiculous posture of renewal, of the insistence of which I am the virtue? Nothing for You is untoward. Inside You would also be tall, more tall, more beautiful. Come toward me from the wall, I want to be with You. So I screamed to You, who hears as the wind, and changes multiply, invariably, changes in the mind. Running to the door, I ran down as a clock runs down. Walked backwards, stumbled, sat down hard on the floor near the wall. Where were You. How absurd, how vicious. There is nothing to do but get up. My knees were iron, I rusted in worship, of You. For that one sings, one writes the spring poem, one goes on walking. The Lady has always moved to the next town and you stumble on after Her. The door in the wall leads to the garden where in the sunlight sit the Graces in long Victorian dresses, of which my grandmother had spoken. History sings in their faces. They are young, they are obtainable, and you follow after them also in the service of God and Truth. But the Lady is indefinable, she will be the door in the wall to the garden in sunlight. I will go on talking forever. I will never get there. Oh Lady, remember me who in Your service grows older not wiser, no more than before. How can I die alone. Where will I be then who am now alone, what groans so pathetically in this room where I am alone? I will go to the garden. I will be a romantic. I will sell myself in hell, in heaven also I will be. In my mind I see the door, I see the sunlight before me across the floor beckon to me, as the Lady’s skirt moves small beyond it.