At the threshold, your hand heavies, widens
into a fist. A knock. The door’s yellow
eye mocks you, and you wish your back would split.
You wish the coat would burst from your skin.
You have no patience. You are full of want
and marrow. The moon is new and new this
desire to be your heaviest self.
Again, you knock. Again, the mocking eye.
You damn the moon its darkness, your shuffling
boots, your impotent hands. You have a howl
for this dark well. It sifts out a whimper.