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by John Dotson
when the door opens
and i may behold over
and over again this work
of heart with human hands
there are no more doubts
my eyes are led wherever
they seek conjunctions
whirlpools unspeakable
open wounds that must be
attended at the edges where
nothing becomes something
and then reverses
where life is more death
but death comes around to
this sudden moment
among the living
colors appear and disappear
with passing clouds
there on the horizon of bold moves
and right here
after the slightest touch
is how i belong
where darkness shines
as far as near
and the stone cries out
that asking too much
is better than asking
too little
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