Though those doors that close, are opened... Those doors through my soul knock about.

Don't speak to me of those doors,
my friend,
don't speak;

because I know their hinges crowned 
with anger,
their braces filed down by sky,

their tacit vigilance on the highest
of nights,
through which our beloved
sometimes passed and the soul
cried out,
pained to its very bones,
with the trembling of a heavy,
dark,
forbidden...

I have passed at all hours
through those damp doors that close,
that open,
and I have laughed my head off
from feeling their deep altered wood,
because a coral-coloured child passed
amid drapers like rivers of a formless swan.

But I also remember,
beneath my childhood,
in a secret April with inhabitants,
with oceans,
with trees,
with boats,
with ?
a door made of blue woodwork
where sometimes my mother began,
her lips began,
her ?
her arms which came out of the waves,
her voice which contained the afternoon
and barley my two legs that run
upsetting the air.

Now I remember her
with my childhood belligerence,
door of my young stones,

My mother
with her bore-al calf's footsteps,
passing through her,
becoming the week
girding her profile,
the braid,
the memory
her waist in dove debris,
and she sought me
among the inhabitants of that
April---

With trees,
and I ran,
ran,
ran,
with my legs
to be found
with my voice
in the...